kept in cotton-wool forty years, madam. Little candle holders, you
perceive. A pretty fancy, eh? I happened to remember them the
other day,--hunted 'em up,--the result, thanks to Mrs. Grahame and
Elizabeth Beadle. Mrs. Beadle, ma'am, I desire that you will come
in, and not skulk in the doorway there, as if you had reason to be
ashamed of your handiwork. My housekeeper, Mrs. Beadle, ladies and
gentlemen: a good woman, if she will allow me to say so, and a
good cook. Now, Guiseppe, a knife for Miss Grahame, and we will
test the quality of this same cake. Plenty of citron, I trust,
Elizabeth Beadle? No little skimpy bits, but wedges, slabs of
citron? Ha! that is as it should be. She wanted to make a white
cake, my dear,--a light, effervescent kind of thing, that can
hardly be tasted in the mouth; but I refused to insult either you
or my traditions in such a manner. A birthday cake, Mrs. Grahame,
my dear madam, should be as rich as spices and plums, brandy and
citron,--especially citron, which I take to be an epitome of the
Orient, gastronomically speaking,--as rich as all manner of good
things can make it. You agree with me, my young friend?" He nodded
to Gerald, whose eyes met his, flaming with approval.

"Oh, don't I, sir!" cried Gerald. "When they talk about
wholesomeness and that sort of r--of thing,--well, I beg your
pardon, mater dear, but you know you do, sometimes, in a manner to
turn gray the hair,--when they do, I always think it's a dreadful
shame to have wholesome things on your birthday. And--oh, I say!"
Here he relapsed into silence, as the first slice dropped from the
side of the great cake, revealing depth upon depth of richness.
The two mothers shuddered slightly, and exchanged deploring
smiles; but Hugh clasped his hands in rapture, and lifted up his
voice and spoke.