a beet, with perspiration streaming down his face, he had on one of his
wife's big gingham aprons. 'I can't get this durned thing off,' he said,
'for the strings are tied in a hard knot and I can't bust 'em, so you'll
have to excuse me, ladies.' We begged him not to mention it and went in
and sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted the apron around to
his back and rolled it up, but he did look so ashamed and worried that
I felt sorry for him, and Diana said she feared we had called at an
inconvenient time. 'Oh, not at all,' said Mr. Blair, trying to smile
. . . you know he is always very polite . . . 'I'm a little busy . . .
getting ready to bake a cake as it were. My wife got a telegram today
that her sister from Montreal is coming tonight and she's gone to the
train to meet her and left orders for me to make a cake for tea. She
writ out the recipe and told me what to do but I've clean forgot half
the directions already. And it says, 'flavor according to taste.' What
does that mean? How can you tell? And what if my taste doesn't happen to
be other people's taste? Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for a
small layer cake?"

"I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He didn't seem to be in his
proper sphere at all. I had heard of henpecked husbands and now I felt
that I saw one. It was on my lips to say, 'Mr. Blair, if you'll give
us a subscription for the hall I'll mix up your cake for you.' But I
suddenly thought it wouldn't be neighborly to drive too sharp a bargain
with a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix the cake for him
without any conditions at all. He just jumped at my offer. He said he'd
been used to making his own bread before he was married but he feared
cake was beyond him, and yet he hated to disappoint his wife. He got me
another apron, and Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair
ran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten all about his apron
and when he ran it streamed out behind him and Diana said she thought