house gown of blue gingham. She was minus the
dust-cap and the ruffled apron, but she had a dab
of flour on the left cheek, and a smutch of crock
on her forehead. She had, too, a cut finger on her
right hand, and a burned thumb on her left. But
she was Billy--and being Billy, she advanced
with a bright smile and held out a cordial hand--
not even wincing when the cut finger came under
Calderwell's hearty clasp.

``I'm glad to see you,'' she welcomed him.
``You'll excuse my not appearing sooner, I'm
sure, for--didn't Bertram tell you?--I'm playing
Bridget to-night. But dinner is ready now,
and we'll go down, please,'' she smiled, as she
laid a light hand on her guest's arm.

Behind her, Bertram, remembering the scene
in the kitchen, stared in sheer amazement. Bertram,
it might be mentioned again, had been
married six months, not six years.

What Billy had intended to serve for a ``simple
dinner'' that night was: grapefruit with cherries,
oyster stew, boiled halibut with egg sauce, chicken
pie, squash, onions, and potatoes, peach fritters,
a ``lettuce and stuff'' salad, and some new pie
or pudding. What she did serve was: grapefruit
(without the cherries), cold roast lamb, potatoes
(a mush of sogginess), tomatoes (canned, and