“But I like cooking, you know, dearie,” grumbled Mary.  “There’s no interest in warming things up.”

The girl laughed.  “You don’t have to go far for your fun,” she said.  “I’ll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it au gratin.”

Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almost banged the door.  Miss Ensor proceeded to lay the table.  “How many, do you think?” she asked.  Mary was doubtful.  She hoped that, it being Christmas Day, they would have somewhere better to go.

“I passed old ‘Bubble and Squeak,’ just now, spouting away to three men and a dog outside the World’s End.  I expect he’ll turn up,” thought Miss Ensor.  She laid for four, leaving space for more if need be.  “I call it the ‘Cadger’s Arms,’” she explained, turning to Joan.  “We bring our own victuals, and Mary cooks them for us and waits on us; and the more of us the merrier.  You look forward to your Sunday evening parties, don’t you?” she asked of Mary.

Mary laughed.  She was busy in a corner with basins and a saucepan.  “Of course I do, dearie,” she answered.  “I’ve always been fond of company.”

There came another opening of the door.  A little hairy man entered.  He wore spectacles and was dressed in black.  He carried a paper parcel which he laid upon the table.  He looked a little doubtful at Joan.  Mary introduced them.  His name was Julius Simson.  He shook hands as if under protest.

“As friends of Mary Stopperton,” he said, “we meet on neutral ground.  But in all matters of moment I expect we are as far asunder as the poles.  I stand for the People.”

“We ought to be comrades,” answered Joan, with a smile.  “I, too, am trying to help the People.”

“You and your class,” said Mr. Simson, “are friends enough to the People, so long as they remember that they are the People, and keep their proper place—­at the bottom.  I am for putting the People at the top.”

“Then they will be the Upper Classes,” suggested Joan.  “And I may still have to go on fighting for the rights of the lower orders.”

“In this world,” explained Mr. Simson, “someone has got to be Master.  The only question is who.”

Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel.  It contained half a sheep’s head.  “How would you like it done?” she whispered.

Mr. Simson considered.  There came a softer look into his eyes.  “How did you do it last time?” he asked.  “It came up brown, I remember, with thick gravy.”

“Braised,” suggested Mary.

“That’s the word,” agreed Mr. Simson.  “Braised.”  He watched while Mary took things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion.

“That’s the sort that makes me despair of the People,” said Mr. Simson.  Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually or imaginary thousands.  “Likes working for nothing.  Thinks she was born to be everybody’s servant.”  He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on the antiquated sofa.  It gave a complaining groan but held out.