or me, because as I went
into the dining-room he took up his position behind a certain chair,
which action on his part plainly indicated that I was to sit there.
I wondered why. Could it be that I had arrived at the age when it is
advisable for a woman to sit back to the light at breakfast? Was this
only another instance of Bindon's devotion to us all? That the credit of
the family is paramount in his mind, I know! All this flashed through
my mind, but I saw a moment later that it was not of my complexion that
Bindon thought, for on a plate before the chair behind which he stood,
lay a small dark gray wad about the size of a five-shilling piece. I
hesitated, and Bindon said in an undertone, "Miss Betty made it." Not a
muscle of his face moved.

I sat down and gazed at the awful result of my present to Betty.
The--what shall I call it?--was gray, as I said before; it had a
crisscross pattern on it, deeply indented, and snugly sunk in the middle
of it was a currant. I sighed. My duty as a professional aunt was clear:
had I not in a moment of weakness said I would eat anything Betty made,
provided it was a proper thing? Had I here a loophole of escape? No, it
was certainly, according to Betty's lights, a most proper thing. But why
does dough, in the hands of the cleanest child, become dark gray?

Bindon, having done his duty by Betty, and not being able on this
occasion to do it by both of us, made no further explanation. Like the
first step, it is no doubt the first bite that costs most dearly; and
while I was pondering whether to take two bites or swallow it whole, Mr.
Dudley came in and sat down opposite me. He is a young man who thinks
that no woman he doesn't know can be worth knowing. When by force of
circumstances he comes to know a fresh one, he always tells her he feels
as if he had known her all her life, and talks of a previous existence,
and so gets over a difficulty. I felt that it was a tribute to Diana
that he treated me so kindly, and I earned his gratitude and commanded
his respect by refusing food at his hands. I said I liked helping myself
at breakfast. He insisted, however, on passing me the toast. This I felt
was apart from Diana altogether.

After a few moments the little gray wad attracted his attention, and his
eyebrows expressed a wish to know what it was.

"Betty made it," I said.

"And what is it?"

"I wonder!" I said. "I think it must come under the head of black
bread."

"What are you