“You horrid thing!” she said, tragically, to the chicken.  “I hate you—­all slippery and bloody.  Ugh!  Why won’t your old windpipe come out?  How anybody can eat you who has got you ready I don’t know!”

“May I bother you for a pitcher of hot water?” asked an even voice from the doorway.

Charlotte turned with a start.  Her cheeks, already flushed, took on a still ruddier hue.

“Yes, if you’ll please help yourself,” she answered, curtly, turning back to her work.  “I am—­engaged.”

“I see.  A congenial task?”

“Very!” Charlotte’s tone was expressive.

“Did I gather that the fowl’s windpipe was the special cause of your distress?” asked the even voice again.

Charlotte faced round once more.

“Doctor Churchill,” she said, “I never cleaned a chicken in my life.  I don’t know what I’m doing at all, only that I’ve been doing it for almost an hour, and it isn’t done.  I presume it’s because I take so much time washing my hands.”

She smiled in spite of herself as the doctor’s hearty laugh filled the little kitchen.

“I think I can appreciate your feelings,” he remarked.

He walked over to the table.  “Get a good hold on the offending windpipe, shut your eyes and pull.”

“I’m afraid of doing something wrong.”

“You won’t.  The trachea of the domestic fowl was especially designed for the purpose, only the necessary attachment for getting a firm grip on it was accidentally omitted.”

“It certainly was.”  Charlotte tugged away energetically for a moment, and drew out the windpipe successfully.  The doctor regarded the bird with a quizzical expression.

“I should advise you to cut up the chicken and make a fricassee of it,” he observed.

“I want to roast it.  I’ve got the stuffing all ready.”  She indicated a bowlful of macerated bread-crumbs mixed with milk and butter, and liberally seasoned with pepper.

“I see.  But I’m a little, just a little, afraid you may have trouble in getting the stuffing to stay in while the chicken is roasting.  You see—­” He paused.

“I suppose I’ve cut it open too much.”

“Rather—­unless you’re a very good amateur surgeon.  And even then—­”

“I’m no surgeon—­I’m no cook—­I never shall be!  I—­don’t want to be!” Charlotte burst out, suddenly, beginning to cut up the chicken with vigorous slashes, mostly in the wrong places.

“Yes, you do.  Hold on a minute!  That joint isn’t there:  it’s farther down.  There.  See?  Once get the anatomy of this bird in your mind, and it won’t bother you a bit to cut it up.  Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, but I know you do want to be a good cook—­because you want to be an accomplished woman.”

Charlotte put down her knife, washed her hands with furious haste, got out a pitcher, poured it full of hot water, and handed it silently to Doctor Churchill without looking at him.  He glanced from it to her with amusement as he received it “Thank you,” he said, politely, and walked away.