"That's all very well," said Geraldine with her mouth full, "but we
expected to skate about the kitchen and watch you make pastry. Kindly
begin, Mrs. Bramton."

"I'd like to see what's inside of that chicken over there," said Scott.
"And I want you to give me some raisins, Mrs. Bramton----"

"I'm dying for a glass of milk," added Geraldine. "Get me some dough,
somebody; I'm going to bake something."

Scott, who, devoured by curiosity, had been sniffing around the spice
cupboard, sneezed violently; a Swedish kitchen-maid threw her apron over
her head, weak with laughter.

"If you're laughing at me, I'll fix you, Olga!" shouted Scott in a rage;
and the air was suddenly filled with balls of dough. Mrs. Bramton fled
before the storm; a well-directed volley drove the maids to cover and
stampeded the two cats.

"Take whatever is good to eat, Geraldine. Hurrah! The town surrenders!
Loot it! No quarter!" shouted Scott. However, when Howker arrived they
retired hastily with pockets full of cinnamon sticks, olives, prunes,
and dried currants, climbing triumphantly to the library above, where
they curled up on a leather divan, under the portrait of their mother,
to divide the spoils.

"Am I bad enough to suit you?" inquired Geraldine with pardonable pride.

"Pooh! That's nothing. If I had another boy here I'd--I'd----"