Doris nods.  “It’s quite thrilling,” says she.  “At ten-thirty every morning I have the butler bring me Cook’s list.  Then I ’phone for the things myself.  That is, I’ve just begun.  Let me see, didn’t I put in to-day’s order in my—­yes, here it is.”  And she fishes a piece of paper out of a platinum mesh bag.  “Think of our needing all that—­just Harold and me,” she goes on.

“I should say so,” says Vee, startin’ to read over the items. “’Sugar, two pounds; tea, two pounds—­’”

“Cook leaves the amounts to me,” explains Doris; “so I just order two pounds of everything.”

“Oh!” says Vee, readin’ on. “‘Butter, two pounds; eggs, two—­’ Do they sell eggs that way, Doris?”

“Don’t they?” asks Doris.  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“‘Coffee, two pounds,’” continues Vee. “‘Yeast cakes, two pounds—­’ Why, wouldn’t that be a lot of yeast cakes?  They’re such little things!”

“Perhaps,” says Doris.  “But then, I sha’n’t have to bother ordering any more for a month, you see.  Now, take the next item.  ’Champagne wafers, ten pounds.’  I’m fond of those.  But that is the only time I broke my rule.  See—­’flour, two pounds; roast beef, two pounds,’ and so on.  Oh, I mean to be quite systematic in my housekeeping!”

“Isn’t she a wonder?” asks Westy, gazin’ at her proud and mushy.

“I say, though, Vee,” goes on Doris enthusiastic, “you must come home with us for dinner to-night.  Do!”

At which Westy nudges her and whispers something behind his hand.

“Oh, yes,” adds Doris.  “You too, Torchy.”

Vee had to ’phone Auntie and get Doris to back her up before the special dispensation was granted; but at six-thirty the four of us starts uptown for this brownstone bird-cage of happiness that Westy has taken a five-year lease of.

“Just think!” says Vee, as we unloads from the taxi.  “You with a house of your own, and managing servants, and—­”

“Oh!” remarks Doris, as she pushes the button.  “I do hope you won’t mind Cyril.”

“Mind who?” says Vee.

“He—­he’s our butler,” explains Westy.  “I suppose he’s a very good butler, too—­the man at the employment agency said he was; but—­er—­”

“I’m sure he is,” puts in Doris, “even if he does look a little odd.  Then there is his name—­Cyril Snee.  Of course, Cyril doesn’t sound just right for a butler, does it?  But Snee is so—­so—­”

“Isn’t it?” says Vee.  “I should call him Cyril.”

“We started in that way,” says Doris, “but he asked us not to; said he preferred to be called Snee.  It was unusual, and besides he had private reasons.  So between ourselves we speak of him as Cyril, and to his face—­ Well, I suppose we shall get used to saying Snee, though—­ Why, where can he be?  I’ve rung twice and—­ Oh, here he comes!”