I never expected to cook, myself, I ought to know
how it was done, so to properly oversee it. She
said that--that no woman, who didn't know how
to cook and keep house properly, had any business
to be a wife. And, Bertram, I did try, honestly,
all this week. I tried so hard to remember when
you sponged bread and when you kneaded it.''

``I don't ever need--_yours_,'' cut in Bertram,
shamelessly; but he got only a deservedly stern
glance in return.

``And I repeated over and over again how
many cupfuls of flour and pinches of salt and
spoonfuls of baking-powder went into things;
but, Bertram, I simply could not keep my mind
on it. Everything, everywhere was singing to
me. And how do you suppose I could remember
how many pinches of flour and spoonfuls of salt
and cupfuls of baking-powder went into a loaf
of cake when all the while the very teakettle on
the stove was singing: `It's all right--Bertram
loves me--I'm going to marry Bertram!'?''

``You darling!'' (In spite of the man across
the aisle Bertram did almost kiss her this time.)
``As if anybody cared how many cupfuls of
baking-powder went anywhere--with that in
your heart!''