omfortably, there was no escape from the fact that their situation was
compromising. The only question was how could the matter be most
tactfully called to his attention. At the moment he seemed happily
unaware that such things as the proprieties existed.

At this his head appeared at the head of the cellar stairs.

"Watch the cereal, please," he said, "and see that it doesn't burn."

"Like King Alfred?"

"Not too much like him, please, for that pitiful little dab of food is
about all we have to eat."

When he was gone Christine advanced toward the stove and looked at the
cereal--looked at it closely, but it seemed to her to be but little
benefited by her attention. Presently she discovered on a shelf beside
the laundry clock a pinkish purple paper novel, called: "The Crime of the
Season." Its cover depicted a man in a check suit and side-whiskers
looking on in astonishment at the removal of a drowned lady in full
evening dress from a very minute pond. Christine opened it, and was so
fortunate as to come full upon the crime. She became as completely
absorbed in it as the laundress had been before her.

She was recalled to the more sordid but less criminal surroundings of
real life by a strong pungent smell. She sniffed, and then her heart
suddenly sank as she realized that the cereal was burning. She recognized
a peculiarly disagreeable flavor about which she had often scolded the
cook, thinking such carelessness on the part of one of her employees to
be absolutely inexcusable.

She ran to the head of the cellar stairs. "Mr. Riatt!" she called.

He was now shaking down the furnace, and the noise completely drowned her
voice. "Oh, dear, what a noisy man he is," she thought and when he had
finished, she called again: "Mr. Riatt!"

This time he heard. "What is it?" he answered.

"Mr. Riatt, what shall I do? The cereal is burning terribly."

"I should think it was," he said. "I can smell it down here." He sprang
up the stairs and snatched the pot from the stove. "You must have stopped
stirring it," he said.

"Oh, I didn't stir it!"

"What did you do?"

"You didn't tell me to stir it."

"I certainly did."

"No, you said just to watch it."

Riatt looked at her. "Well," he said, "I've heard of glances cutting
like a knife, but never stirring like a spoon. If I were a really just
man," he went on, "I'd make you eat that burnt mess for your supper, but
I'm so absurdly indulgent that I'll share some of my bac