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she could not reach Bertram； anyway。 Doubtless
he had left the Winthrops' by this time。
There was Marie。 She could telephone Marie。
But Marie could not very well come just now； she
knew； and then； too； there was Cyril to be taken
into consideration。 How Cyril would gibe at the
wife who had to call in all the neighbors just
because her husband was bringing home a friend
to dinner！ How he would Well； he shouldn't！
He should not have the chance。 So； there！
With a jerk Mrs。 Bertram Henshaw pulled
herself away from the wall and stood erect。 Her
eyes snapped； and the very poise of her chin
spelled determination。
Very well； she would show them。 Was not
Bertram bringing this man home because he was
proud of her？ Mighty proud he would be if she
had to call in half of Boston to get his dinner for
him！ Nonsense！ She would get it herself。 Was
not this the time； if ever； to be an oak？ A vine；
doubtless； would lean and cling and telephone；
and whine ‘‘I can't！'' But not an oak。 An oak
would hold up its head and say ‘‘I can！'' An
oak would go ahead and get that dinner。 She
would be an oak。 She would get that dinner。
What if she didn't know how to cook bread and
cake and pies and things？ One did not have to
cook bread and cake and pies just to get a dinner
meat and potatoes and vegetables！ Besides；
she _could_ make peach fritters。 She knew she
could。 She would show them！
And with actually a bit of song on her lips； Billy
skipped up…stairs for her ruffled apron and dust…
captwo necessary accompaniments to this
dinner…getting； in her opinion。
Billy found the apron and dust…cap with no
difficulty； but it took fully ten of her precious
minutes to unearth from its obscure hiding…place
the blue…and…gold ‘‘Bride's Helper'' cookbook；
one of Aunt Hannah's wedding gifts。
On the way to the kitchen； Billy planned her
dinner。 As was natural； perhaps； she chose the
things she herself would like to eat。
‘‘I won't attempt anything very elaborate；''
she said to herself。 ‘‘It would be wiser to have
something simple； like chicken pie； perhaps。 I
love chicken pie！ And I'll have oyster stew first
that is； after the grapefruit。 Just oysters
boiled in milk must be easier than soup to make。
I'll begin with grapefruit with a cherry in it； like
Pete fixes it。 Those don't have to be cooked；
anyhow。 I'll have fishBertram loves the fish
course。 Let me see； halibut； I guess； with egg
sauce。 I won't have any roast； nothing but the
chicken pie。 And I'll have squash and onions。
I can have a salad； easyjust lettuce and stuff。
That doesn't have to be cooked。 Oh； and the
peach fritters； if I get time to make them。 For
dessertwell； maybe I can find a new pie or
pudding in the cookbook。 I want to use that
cookbook for something； after hunting all this
time for it！''
In the kitchen Billy found exquisite neatness；
and silence。 The first brought an approving light
to her eyes； but the second； for some unapparent
reason； filled her heart with vague misgiving。
This feeling； however； Billy resolutely cast from
her as she crossed the room； dropped her book
on to the table； and turned toward the shining
black stove。
There was an excellent fire。 Glowing points
of light showed that only a good draft was needed
to make the whole mass of coal red…hot。 Billy；
however； did not know this。 Her experience of
fires was confined to burning wood in open grates
and wood in open grates had to be poked to
make it red and glowing。 With confident alacrity
now； therefore； Billy caught up the poker； thrust
it into the mass of coals and gave them a fine
stirring up。 Then she set back the lid of the
stove and went to hunt up the ingredients for
her dinner。
By the time Billy had searched five minutes
and found no chicken； no oysters； and no halibut；
it occurred to her that her larder was not；
after all； an open market； and that one's provisions
must be especially ordered to fit one's needs。
As to ordering them nowBilly glanced at the
clock and shook her head。
‘‘It's almost five； already； and they'd never
get here in time；'' she sighed regretfully。 ‘‘I'll
have to have something else。''
Billy looked now； not for what she wanted； but
for what she could find。 And she found： some
cold roast lamb； at which she turned up her nose；
an uncooked beefsteak； which she appropriated
doubtfully； a raw turnip and a head of lettuce；
which she hailed with glee； and some beets；
potatoes； onions； and grapefruit； from all of which
she took a generous supply。 Thus laden she
went back to the kitchen。
Spread upon the table they made a brave
show。
‘‘Oh； well； I'll have quite a dinner； after all；''
she triumphed； cocking her head happily。 ‘‘And
now for the dessert；'' she finished； pouncing on
the cookbook。
It was while she was turning the leaves to find
the pies and puddings that she ran across the
vegetables and found the word ‘‘beets'' staring
her in the face。 Mechanically she read the line
below。
‘‘Winter beets will require three hours to cook。
Use hot water。''
Billy's startled eyes sought the clock。
Three hoursand it was five； now！
Frenziedly； then； she ran her finger down the
page。
‘‘Onions； one and one…half hours。 Use hot
water。 Turnips require a long time； but if cut
thin they will cook in an hour and a quarter。''
‘‘An hour and a quarter； indeed！'' she moaned。
‘‘Isn't there anything anywhere that doesn't
take forever to cook？''
‘‘Early peas 。 。 。 green corn 。 。 。 summer
squash 。 。 。'' mumbled Billy's dry lips。
‘‘But what do folks eat in January_January_？''
It was the apparently inoffensive sentence；
‘‘New potatoes will boil in thirty minutes；''
that brought fresh terror to Billy's soul； and set
her to fluttering the cookbook leaves with renewed
haste。 If it took _new_ potatoes thirty minutes
to cook； how long did it take old ones？ In
vain she searched for the answer。 There were
plenty of potatoes。 They were mashed； whipped；
scalloped； creamed； fried； and broiled； they were
made into puffs； croquettes； potato border； and
potato snow。 For many of these they were boiled
first‘‘until tender；'' one rule said。
‘‘But that doesn't tell me how long it takes to
get 'em tender；'' fumed Billy； despairingly。 ‘‘I
suppose they think anybody ought to know that
but I don't！'' Suddenly her eyes fell once more
on the instructions for boiling turnips； and her
face cleared。 ‘‘If it helps to cut turnips thin；
why not potatoes？'' she cried。 ‘‘I _can_ do that；
anyhow； and I will；'' she finished； with a sigh of
relief； as she caught up half a dozen potatoes and
hurried into the pantry for a knife。 A few minutes
later； the potatoes； peeled； and cut almost to
wafer thinness； were dumped into a basin of cold
water。
‘‘There！ now I guess you