and it had warped her better nature.

'I suppose you can cook all right?' I asked Elizabeth as ten minutes
later, all arrangements made, I accompanied her to the door.

'Me? I'm a rare 'and at cookin'. My friend's 'usband ses 'e's never
come across any one who can cook a steak like I can.'

'A steak,' I murmured ecstatically, 'richly brown with softly swelling
curves----'

'Rather underdone in the middle,' supplemented Elizabeth, 'just a
little bit o' fat, fairly crisp, a lump o' butter on the top, and I
always 'old that a dash o' fried onion improves the flavour.'

'How beautiful,' I murmured again. It sounded like a poem. Swinburne
or de Musset have never stirred me so deeply as did that simple
recitation.

Elizabeth, seeing that she had an attentive audience, continued, 'Take
roast pork, now. Well, I always say there's a lot in the cookin' o'
that, with crisp cracklin', apple sauce an' stuffin'-----'

'Don't go on,' I, broke in, feeling in my weakened state, unable to
stand any more. Tears that men weep had risen to my eyes. 'Promise,'
I said, taking her toil-worn hand, 'that you will come to-morrow.'

'Right-o,' said Elizabeth, and her lank form disappeared in the
darkness. I staggered into the dining-room. Henry was sitting at the
disordered dinner table jotting down notes. At any other time this