er find it in her
heart to deny a pleasure which it was in her power to grant, and was
gaily confident of managing "somehow" to prepare a palatable meal for
her guest, indeed, in the ardour of hospitality was rather pleased than
otherwise to have a hand in the preparations.

On the principle of "first catch your hare, then cook it," she looked
critically over the contents of the cupboards to find some ingredients
which commended themselves to her limited knowledge of the culinary art.
Gelatine had endless possibilities, but time was against her, and she
had the dimmest notions as to the quantity required; pastry was always
attainable, but on the one occasion when she had experimented in this
direction, Jack had taken the nutcrackers to divide his tartlet amidst
the cheers of an admiring audience, so that there was plainly no fame to
be won in this direction.

Milk puddings were too painfully ordinary, but a bag of macaroni seemed
to offer at once an easy and a tasty alternative. Bridgie felt herself
quite capable of boiling the sticks into tenderness, and scraping down
cheese to add to the milky concoction, and a further search discovered a
dark yellow lump stowed away in the corner of a cupboard evidently
destined for such an end. It was wonderfully hard; Bridgie's fingers
ached with the strain of cutting it, and she shook her pretty head
solemnly over the wastefulness of servants in not using up materials
before their freshness was lost. She had intended to use the whole of
the piece, but it took so long to prepare that she stopped half-way, and
to judge by the mellow brownness of the pudding when she peeped at it in
the oven, quality had more than made up for quantity.

Sylvia sniffed delicately as she limped over the threshold, for the
pudding had a strangely powerful smell, not exactly savoury perhaps, but
distinctly fresh and wholesome. Bridgie bridled in proud consciousness
of success the while she tucked up her guest on the drawing-room sofa.

"I've been making a pudding for you, dear. Mind you enjoy it! Mary is
out, so you are to excuse everything that goes wrong. There's a pretty
pink cushion to match your dress. I never saw that dress before! You
are wonderfully smart, Miss Sylvia Trevor!"

"It's for the boys," said Sylvia, laughing. "I want to make a good
impression, for I am dreadfully afraid they mayn't like me. I know
nothing about young men. They never penetrate into Number Six, and Aunt