in a
resigned tone, trying to light his rejected countenance with an
artificial smile, "that makes such a difference, you know. I shall quite
enjoy it now. But--er"--glancing doubtfully at her small white hands,
"did you really make it yourself?"

"Should I say it, if not sure?" reproachfully; "I even mixed it all up,
_so_," with a pantomimic motion of her fingers, that suggests the idea
of tearing handfuls of hair out of somebody's head. "I put in the
raisins and currants and everything myself, while cook looked on. And
she says I shall be quite a grand cook myself presently if--if I keep to
it; she says, too, I have quite the right turn in my wrists for making
cakes."

"Is this the cook you don't like?" asks he, gloomily, while sadly
consuming the cake she has pressed upon him. He is eating it slowly and
with care; there is, indeed, no exuberant enjoyment in his manner, no
touch of refined delight as he partakes of the delicacy manufactured by
his dainty hostess.

"Yes," says Miss Blount, in a somewhat changed tone. "But what do _you_
know of her?"

"I think she's a humbug," says Gower, growing more moody every instant.

"Then you mean, of course, that she didn't mean one word she said to me,
and that--that in effect, I can't make cakes?" says Dulce, opening her
large eyes, and regarding him in a manner that embarrasses him to the
last degree. He rouses himself, and makes a supreme effort to retrieve
his position.

"How could you imagine I meant that?" he says, putting the last morsel
of the cake, with a thankful heart, into his mouth. "I don't know when I
have enjoyed anything so much as this."

"Really, you liked it? You thought it--"

"Delicious," with effusion.

"Have some more!" says Dulce, generously, holding out to him the cake
plate near her. "Take a big bit. Take"--she has her eyes fixed rather
searchingly upon his--"_this_ piece."

Something in her manner warns him it will be unwise to refuse; with a
sinking heart he takes the large piece of cake she has pointed out to
him, and regards it as one might prussic acid. His courage fails him.

"Must I," he says, turning to her with a sudden and almost tearful
change of tone, "must I eat all this?"

"Yes--all!" says Miss Blount, sternly.

Sadly, and in silence, he completes his task. But so slowly that when it
is finished he finds Mr. Boer and Miss Gaunt have risen, and are making
their adieux to their pretty hostess, and perforce he is bound to f