t the last moment! Downstairs in the kitchen would be
the dinner, waiting for the guests; upstairs round the glittering table
would be the assembled guests, waiting for their dinner. But between the
two yawned an impassable gulf. The bridge, without a word of warning,
had bolted--was probably by this time well on its way to Ilford. There
was excuse for my mother's tears.

"Isn't it possible to get somebody else?" asked my father.

"Impossible, in the time," said my mother. "I had been training her for
the whole week. We had rehearsed it perfectly."

"Have it in the kitchen," suggested my aunt, who was folding napkins to
look like ships, which they didn't in the least, "and call it a picnic."
Really it seemed the only practical solution.

There came a light knock at the front door.

"It can't be anybody yet, surely," exclaimed my father in alarm, making
for his coat.

"It's Barbara, I expect," explained my mother. "She promised to come
round and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her." My
mother's nature was pessimistic.

But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it upon
myself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the window
when Barbara came in at the door--in those days, I mean.

She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was so
quick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing.

"There's going to be no dinner," laughed my father. "We are going to
look surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to see
their faces."

"There will be a very nice dinner," smiled my mother, "but it will be
in the kitchen, and there's no way of getting it upstairs." And they
explained to her the situation.

She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in the group. Then
a light broke upon it.

"I'll get you someone," she said.

"My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood," began my mother. But
Barbara had snatched the latchkey from its nail and was gone.

With her disappearance, shadow fell again upon us. "If there were only
an hotel in this beastly neighbourhood," said my father.

"You must entertain them by yourself, Luke," said my mother; "and I must
wait--that's all."

"Don't be absurd, Maggie," cried my father, getting angry. "Can't cook
bring it in?"

"No one can cook a dinner and serve it, too," answered my mother,
impatiently. "Besides, she's not presentable."

"What about Fan?" whispered my father.

My m