On the way to the kitchen, Billy planned her
dinner. As was natural, perhaps, she chose the
things she herself would like to eat.

``I won't attempt anything very elaborate,''
she said to herself. ``It would be wiser to have
something simple, like chicken pie, perhaps. I
love chicken pie! And I'll have oyster stew first
--that is, after the grapefruit. Just oysters
boiled in milk must be easier than soup to make.
I'll begin with grapefruit with a cherry in it, like
Pete fixes it. Those don't have to be cooked,
anyhow. I'll have fish--Bertram loves the fish
course. Let me see, halibut, I guess, with egg
sauce. I won't have any roast; nothing but the
chicken pie. And I'll have squash and onions.
I can have a salad, easy--just lettuce and stuff.
That doesn't have to be cooked. Oh, and the
peach fritters, if I get time to make them. For
dessert--well, maybe I can find a new pie or
pudding in the cookbook. I want to use that
cookbook for something, after hunting all this
time for it!''

In the kitchen Billy found exquisite neatness,
and silence. The first brought an approving light
to her eyes; but the second, for some unapparent
reason, filled her heart with vague misgiving.
This feeling, however, Billy resolutely cast from