She had taken the bizarre paper slip which protected the even more striking cover of a recent popular novel, and adjusted it to a bulky volume of very different character.  In her chatelaine bag she had a pencil and a note-book, for Miss Eloise was sorely afflicted with the note-book habit, and had a passion for reducing everything to lists.  She had lists of things she wanted and lists of things she didn’t want, which circumstances or well-meaning Santa Clauses had forced upon her; little books of addresses and telephone numbers, jewels and other personal belongings, and, finally, a catalogue of her library alphabetically arranged by author and title.

Immediately after breakfast, she went off with a long, swinging stride which filled her small audience with envy and admiration.  Disjointed remarks, such as “skirt a little too short, but good tailor,” and “terrible amount of energy,” and “wonder where she’s going,” followed her.  These comments were audible, had she been listening, but she had the gift of keeping solitude in a crowd.

Far along the beach she went, hatless, her blood singing with the joy of life.  A June morning, the sea, youth, and the consciousness of being loved—­for what more could one ask?  The diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight.  It was the only ring she wore.

[Sidenote:  The Cook Book]

Presently, she found a warm, soft place behind a sand dune.  She reared upon the dune a dark green parasol with a white border, and patted sand around the curved handle until it was, as she thought, firmly placed.  Then she settled her skirts comfortably and opened her book, for the first time.

“It looks bad,” she mused.  “Wonder what a carbohydrate is.  And proteids—­where do you buy ’em?  Albuminoids—­I’ve been from Maine to Florida and have never seen any.  They must be germs.

“However,” she continued, to herself, “I have a trained mind, and ‘keeping everlastingly at it brings success.’  It would be strange if three hours of hard study every day, on the book the man in the store said was the best ever, didn’t produce some sort of definite result.  But, oh, how Allan would laugh at me!”

The book fell on the sand, unheeded.  The brown eyes looked out past the blue surges to some far Castle in Spain.  Her thoughts refused to phrase themselves in words, but her pulses leaped with the old, immortal joy.  The sun had risen high in the shining East before she returned to her book.

“This isn’t work,” she sighed to herself; “away with the dreams.”

Before long, she got out her note-book.  “A fresh fish,” she wrote, “does not smell fishy and its eyes are bright and its gills red.  A tender chicken or turkey has a springy breast bone.  If you push it down with your finger, it springs back.  A leg of lamb has to have the tough, outer parchment-like skin taken off with a sharp knife.  Some of the oil of the wool is in it and makes it taste muttony and bad.  A lobster should always be bought when he is alive and green and boiled at home.  Then you know he is fresh.  Save everything for soup.”