A parting jab at my heroine's hair and eyes, and I'm
off to save the cucumbers.

Back at my typewriter once more. Shall I make my
heroine petite or grande? I decide that stateliness
and Gibsonesque height should accompany the calm gray
eyes. I rattle away happily, the plot unfolding itself
in some mysterious way. Sis opens the door a little and
peers in. She is dressed for the street.

"Dawn dear, I'm going to the dressmaker's. Frieda's
upstairs cleaning the bathroom, so take a little squint
at the roast now and then, will you? See that it doesn't
burn, and that there's plenty of gravy. Oh, and Dawn--
tell the milkman we want an extra half-pint of cream
to-day. The tickets are on the kitchen shelf, back of
the clock. I'll be back in an hour."

"Mhmph," I reply.

Sis shuts the door, but opens it again almost
immediately.

"Don't let the Infants bother you. But if Frieda's
upstairs and they come to you for something to eat, don't
let them have any cookies before dinner. If they're
really hungry they'll eat bread and butter."

I promise, dreamily, my last typewritten sentence
still running through my head. The gravy seems to have