thinking about how he looked even now. I haven't been to very many
parties in my life, but from this time on I mean to indulge in them
often. Candle-light, pretty women's frocks, black coat sleeves, cut
glass and flowers are good ingredients for a joy-drink, and why not?

But when I got to planning about the gorgeous food I wanted to give them
all, I got into what I feel came near being a serious trouble. It was
writing down the recipe for the nesselrode pudding they make in my
family that undid me. Suddenly hunger rose up from nowhere and gripped
me by the throat, gnawed me all over like a bone, then shook me until
I was limp and unresisting. I must have astralised myself down to the
pantry, for when I became conscious I found myself in company with a
loaf of bread, a plate of butter and a huge jar of jam.

I sat down at the long table by the window and slowly prepared to enjoy
myself. I cut off four slices and buttered them to an equal thickness,
and then more slowly put a long silver spoon into the jam. I even paused
to admire in Jane's mirror over the table the effect of the cascade of
lace that fell across my arm and lost itself in the blue shimmer of
Madame Rene's masterpiece of a _negligée_, then deep down I buried
the spoon in the purple sweetness. I had just lifted it high in the air
when out of the lilac-scented dark of the garden came a laugh.

"Why, Molly, Molly, Molly!" drawled that miserable man-doctor as he came
and leaned on the sill right close to my elbow. The spoon crashed on the
table, and I turned and crashed into words.

"You are cruel, cruel, John Moore, and I hate you worse than I ever did
before, if that is possible. I'm hungry, hungry to death, and now you've
spoiled it all! Go away before I wet this nice crisp bread and jam with