hat she secretly resented every usurpation of privilege.

With Gaspard ill she was able to manipulate the affairs of the kitchen
exactly as she chose, and even in the moment of applying the "hot at
the base of the brain and the cold at the forehead" that the doctor
had prescribed as the most effective method for relieving the pressure
of blood in the tortured temples of the suffering man, she had been
conscious of that thrill of triumph that most human beings feel when
the involuntary removal of the man higher up invests them with power.

Michael did the marketing, and the list went through as Gaspard had
planned it, with some slight adaptations to the exigency, such as the
substitution of twenty-five cans of tomato soup for the fresh
vegetables with which Gaspard had planned to make his tomato bisque,
and brandied peaches in glass jars instead of peach souffle.

"If I allow myself a little handicap in the matter of details," she
said, "I know I can put everything else through as well as Gaspard;"
whereupon she enveloped herself in a huge linen apron, tucked her hair
into one of the chef's white caps, and attacked the problem of
preparing luncheon for from sixty-five to two hundred people, who were
scheduled to appear at uncertain intervals between the hours of twelve
and two-thirty. Later she must be ready to serve tea and ices to a
problematical number of patrons, but she tried not to think beyond the
immediate task.

She could make a very good tomato bisque by adding one cup of milk and
a dash of cream to one half-pint can of MacDonald's tomato soup,
enough to serve three people adequately, and she proceeded to multiply
that recipe by twenty-five. She didn't think of getting large cans
till Michael in the process of opening the half-pint tins made the
belated suggestion, which she greeted with some hauteur.

"I'm not the person to mind a little extra work, Michael, when I am
sure of my results. Precision--that's the secret of the difference
between American and French cooking."

"An' sure and I fail to see the difference between the preciseness of
a quart can and four half-pint ones, but I suppose it's my ignorance
now."

"Your supposition is correct, Michael," she said airily, but out of
the corner of her eye she saw him smiling to himself over the growing
heap of half-pint tins, and reddened with mortification at her naivete
in the matter.

She looked at the vat of terra-cotta puree with considerable disma