She was deep in discussion with Agnes regarding the sole.  Agnes thought she knew how to prepare it with bread crumbs, but both were equally uncertain how the melted butter was to be made.  There was no cookery-book in the house, and it seemed as if the fish would have to be eaten with plain butter until it occurred to Agnes that she might borrow a cookery-book next door.  It seemed to Evelyn that she had never seen a finer sole, so fat and firm; it really would be a pity if they did not succeed in making the melted butter.  When Agnes came back with the book, Evelyn read out the directions, and was surprised how hard it was to understand.  In the end it was Agnes who explained it to her.  The chicken presented some difficulties.  It was of an odd size, and Agnes was not sure whether it would take half-an-hour or three-quarters to cook.  Evelyn studied the white bird, felt the cold, clammy flesh, and inclined to forty minutes.  Agnes thought that would be enough if she could get her oven hot enough.  She began by raking out the flues, and Evelyn had to stand back to avoid the soot.  She stood, her eyes fixed on the fire, interested in the draught and the dissolution of every piece of coal in the flame.  It seemed to Evelyn that the fire was drawing beautifully, and she appealed to Agnes, who only seemed fairly satisfied.  It was doing pretty well, but she had never liked that oven; one was never sure of it.  Margaret used to put a piece of paper over the chicken to prevent it burning, but Agnes said there was no danger of it burning; the oven never could get hot enough for that.  But the oven, as Agnes had said, was a tricky one, and when she took the chicken out to baste it, it seemed a little scorched.  So Evelyn insisted on a piece of paper.  Agnes said that it would delay the cooking of the chicken, and attributed the scorching to the quantity of coal which Miss Innes would keep adding.  If she put any more on she would not be answerable that the chimney would not catch fire.  Every seven or eight minutes the chicken was taken out to be basted.  The bluey-whitey look of the flesh which Evelyn had disliked had disappeared; the chicken was acquiring a rich brown colour which she much admired, and if it had not been for Agnes, who told her the dinner would be delayed till eight o’clock, she would have had the chicken out every five minutes, so much did she enjoy pouring the rich, bubbling juice over the plump back.

“Father!  Father, dinner is ready!  I’ve got a sole and a chicken.  The sole is a beauty; Agnes says she never saw a fresher one.”

“And where did all these things come from?”

“I sent my coachman for them.  Now sit down and let me help you.  I cooked the dinner myself.”  Feeling that Agnes’s eye was upon her, she added, “Agnes and I—­I helped Agnes.  We made the melted butter from the recipe in the cookery-book next door.  I do hope it is a success.”

“I see you’ve got champagne, too.”