Suppose you were to begin quite soon?'

'A batter,' began Mrs. Marston, with the eagerness of a philosopher
expounding her theory, 'is a well-beaten mixture of eggs and flour.
Repeat after me, my dear.'

'Eh, what's the use? _He_ dunna know what he eats no more than a
pig! I shanna cook for 'im.'

'Who's that, dear?' Mrs. Marston inquired.

'My dad.'

Mrs. Marston held up her hands with the mock-fur knitting in them, and
looked at Edward with round eyes.

'She says her father's a--a pig, my dear!'

'She doesn't mean it,' said he loyally, 'do you, Hazel?'

'Ah, and more!'

The host and hostess sighed.

Then Edward said: 'Yes, but you won't always be keeping house for your
father, you know,' and found himself so confused that he had to go and
fetch a pipe.

Afterwards he walked part way home with Hazel, and coming back under
the driving sky--that seemed to move all in a piece like a sliding