He looked up and, for a moment, I felt that I ought not to have told
him so suddenly. But joy does not often kill. I went and knelt beside
him. 'Dearest,' I whispered, 'it seems as though all the bitterness
and misunderstanding between you and me is to be swept away at last.
She can cook steaks, dear--juicy steaks, pork with crackling----'

'Sage and onion stuffing?' burst in a hoarse murmur from Henry.

'Yes, and large mutton chops, rich in fat----'

'Dearest, how splendid,' whispered Henry. Our lips met in ecstacy.

That evening was one of the happiest we have ever spent. Henry and I
sat together on the divan and looked at the cookery-book. There was no
doubt about it. Henry said, that Mrs. Beeton was a wonderful woman.
We felt that she and Mr. Beeton must have been tremendously happy in
their married life.

[Illustration: Henry and I looked at the Cookery Book.]

The illustrations to the book delighted us, too, with their bold
outlines, vigorous colouring, and, attention to detail. Henry and I
rather favour the impressionist school in art, but when you're admiring
a picture of salmon mayonnaise it refreshes you to distinguish the
ingredients.

Elizabeth arrived the next day, bringing with her a small--perplexingly
small--brown paper parcel. The rest of her luggage, she said, was on
the way. It remained on the way so long that I finally got uneasy and
began to question her about it. She did not seem so disturbed at the