I went downstairs despondently, and found that Mr. Harbison had discovered some eggs and was standing helplessly staring at them.

“Omelet—­eggs.  Eggs—­omelet.  That’s the extent of my knowledge,” he said, when I entered.  “You’ll have to come to my assistance.”

It was then that I saw the cook book.  It was lying on a shelf beside the clock, and while Mr. Harbison had his back turned I got it down.  It was quite clear that the domestic type of woman was his ideal, and I did not care to outrage his belief in me.  So I took the cook book into the pantry and read the recipe over three times.  When I came back I knew it by heart, although I did not understand it.

“I will tell you how,” I said with a great deal of dignity, “and since you want to help, you may make it yourself.”

He was delighted.

“Fine!” he said.  “Suppose you give me the idea first.  Then we’ll go over it slowly, bit by bit.  We’ll make a big fluffy omelet, and if the others aren’t around, we’ll eat it ourselves.”

“Well,” I said, trying to remember exactly, “you take two eggs—­”

“Two!” he repeated.  “Two eggs for ten people!”

“Don’t interrupt me,” I said irritably.  “If—­if two isn’t enough we can make several omelets, one after the other.”

He looked at me with admiration.

“Who else but you would have thought of that!” he remarked.  “Well, here are two eggs.  What next?”

“Separate them,” I said easily.  No, I didn’t know what it meant.  I hoped he would; I said it as casually as I could, and I did not look at him.  I knew he was staring at me, puzzled.

“Separate them!” he said.  “Why, they aren’t fastened together!” Then he laughed.  “Oh, yes, of course!” When I looked he had put one at each end of the table.  “Afraid they’ll quarrel, I suppose,” he said.  “Well, now they’re separated.”

“Then beat.”

“First separate, then beat!” he repeated.  “The author of that cook book must have had a mean disposition.  What’s next?  Hang them?” He looked up at me with his boyish smile.

“Separate and beat,” I repeated.  If I lost a word of that recipe I was gone.  It was like saying the alphabet; I had to go to the beginning every time mentally.

“Well,” he reflected, “you can’t beat an egg, no matter how cruel you may be, unless you break it first.”  He picked up an egg and looked at it.  “Separate!” he reflected.  “Ah—­the white from the—­whatever you cooking experts call it—­the yellow part.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, light breaking on me.  “Of course.  I knew you would find it out.”  Then back to the recipe—­“beat until well mixed; then fold in the whites.”

“Fold?” he questioned.  “It looks pretty thin to fold, doesn’t it?  I—­upon my word, I never heard of folding an egg.  Are you—­but of course you know.  Please come and show me how.”