y
when she had stirred in the last measure of cream. Twenty-five pints
of tomato bisque is a rather formidable quantity of a liquid the chief
virtue of which is its sparing and judicious introduction into the
individual diet scheme. Nancy hardly felt that she wanted to be alone
with it.

"They'll soon lick it all up, and be polishing their plates like so
many Tom-cats," Michael said, indicating their potential patronage by
waving his hand toward the courtyard. "Here comes Miss Betty, now.
She'll be after lending a hand in the cooking."

"Keep her away, Michael," Nancy cried; "go out and head her off. Make
her go up-stairs and sit with Gaspard,--anything, but don't let her
come in here. If she does I won't answer for the consequences.
I'll--I'll--I don't know what I'll do to her."

"Throw her in the soup kettle, most likely," Michael chuckled. "Faith,
an' I never saw a woman yet that wasn't ready to scratch the eyes out
of the next one that got into her kitchen."

"She isn't safe," Nancy said darkly. "I need every bit of brain and
self-control I have to put this luncheon through. You keep Miss
Betty's mind on something else--anything but me and the way I am doing
the cooking."

"'Tis done," said Michael; "sure an' I'll protect her from you, if I
have to abduct her myself!"

"I wish he would," Nancy said to herself viciously, "before she gets
another chance at Collier Pratt.--Creamed chicken and mushrooms. It's
a lucky thing that Gaspard diced the chicken last night, and fixed
that macedoine of vegetables for a garnish.--She's a dangerous woman;
she might wreck one's whole life with her unfeeling, histrionic
nonsense.--I wonder if thirteen quarts of cream sauce is going to be
enough."

It turned out to be quite enough after the crises in which the butter
basis got too brown, and the flour after melting into it smoothly
seemed unreasonably inclined to lump again as Nancy stirred the cold
milk into it, but the result after all was perfectly adequate, except
for the uncanny brown tinge that the whole mixture had taken on. Nancy
was unable to restrain herself from taking a sample of it to Gaspard's
bedside.

"_Mais_--but I can not eat it now," he cried, misunderstanding the
purpose of her visit, "nor again--nor ever again. _Jamais!_"

"I don't want you to eat it, Gaspard, I want you to look at it, and
tell me what makes it that color. It turned tan, you see. I don't want
to poison any one."

"I am too miserable