She sat there so long that she rose quite stiff, and so hungry that she could not help going home and stealing into the kitchen.  It was three o’clock, and the old cook, as usual, asleep in an armchair, with her apron thrown up between her face and the fire.  What would Cookie say if she knew?  In that oven she had been allowed to bake in fancy perfect little doll loaves, while Cookie baked them in reality.  Here she had watched the mysterious making of pink cream, had burned countless ‘goes’ of toffy, and cocoanut ice; and tasted all kinds of loveliness.  Dear old Cookie!  Stealing about on tiptoe, seeking what she might devour, she found four small jam tarts and ate them, while the cook snored softly.  Then, by the table, that looked so like a great loaf-platter, she stood contemplating cook.  Old darling, with her fat, pale, crumply face!  Hung to the dresser, opposite, was a little mahogany looking-glass tilted forward.  Nedda could see herself almost down to her toes.  ‘I mean to be prettier than I am!’ she thought, putting her hands on her waist.  ’I wonder if I can pull them in a bit!’ Sliding her fingers under her blouse, she began to pull at certain strings.  They would not budge.  They were loose, yes, really too comfortable.  She would have to get the next size smaller!  And dropping her chin, she rubbed it on the lace edging of her chest, where it felt warm and smelled piny.  Had Cookie ever been in love?  Her gray hairs were coming, poor old duck!  The windows, where a protection of wire gauze kept out the flies, were opened wide, and the sun shone in and dimmed the fire.  The kitchen clock ticked like a conscience; a faint perfume of frying-pan and mint scented the air.  And, for the first time since this new sensation of love had come to her, Nedda felt as if a favorite book, read through and done with, were dropping from her hands.  The lovely times in that kitchen, in every nook of that old house and garden, would never come again!  Gone!  She felt suddenly cast down to sadness.  They had been lovely times!  To be deserting in spirit all that had been so good to her—­it seemed like a crime!  She slid down off the table and, passing behind the cook, put her arms round those substantial sides.  Without meaning to, out of sheer emotion, she pressed them somewhat hard, and, as from a concertina emerges a jerked and drawn-out chord, so from the cook came a long, quaking sound; her apron fell, her body heaved, and her drowsy, flat, soft voice, greasy from pondering over dishes, murmured: 

“Ah, Miss Nedda! it’s you, my dear!  Bless your pretty ’eart.”

But down Nedda’s cheeks, behind her, rolled two tears.

“Cookie, oh, Cookie!” And she ran out. . . .