ad. You have
water. It has been a banquet many a day to me, and this time it would
be the most precious banquet of all."

"I can do a little better than that," faltered Miss Anne. "I have plenty
of eggs and there is bacon."

"Eggs--bacon!" cried Aristide, his bright eyes twinkling and his hands
going up in the familiar gesture. "That is superb. _Tiens!_ you shall
not do the cooking. You shall rest. I will make you an _omelette au
lard_--_ah!_"--he kissed the tips of his fingers--"such an omelette as
you have not eaten since you were in France--and even there I doubt
whether you have ever eaten an omelette like mine." His soul simmering
with omelette, he darted towards the door. "The kitchen--it is this
way?"

"But, Mr. Pujol----!" Miss Anne laughed, protestingly. Who could be
angry with the vivid and impulsive creature?

"It is the room opposite Jean's--not so?"

She followed him into the clean little kitchen, half amused, half
flustered. Already he had hooked off the top of the kitchen range. "Ah!
a good fire. And your frying-pan?" He dived into the scullery.

"Please don't be in such a hurry," she pleaded. "You will have made the
omelette before I've had time to lay the cloth, and it will get cold.
Besides, I want to learn how to do it."

"_Tres bien_," said Aristide, laying down the frying-pan. "You shall see
how it is made--the omelette of the universe."

So he helped Miss Anne to lay the cloth on the gate-legged oak table in
the parlour and to set it out with bread and butter and the end of a
tinned tongue and a couple of bottles of stout. After which they went
back to the little kitchen, where in a kind of giggling awe she watched
him shred the bacon and break the eggs with his thin, skilful fingers
and perform his magic with the frying-pan and turn out the great golden
creation into the dish.

"Now," said he, pulling her in his enthusiasm, "to table while it is
hot."

Miss Anne laughed. She lost her head ever so little. The days had been
drab and hopeless of late and she was still young; so, if she felt
excited at this unhoped for inrush of life and colour, who shall blame
her? The light sparkled once more in her eyes and the pink of her
naturally florid complexion shone on her cheek as they sat down to
table.

"It is I who help it," said Aristide. "Taste that." He passed the plate
and waited, with the artist's expectation for her approval.

"It's delicious."

It was indeed the perfection of ome