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. . . .

And the first moment?  It was like nothing she had dreamed of.  Strange, stiff!  One darting look, and then eyes down; one convulsive squeeze, then such a formal shake of hot, dry hands, and off he had gone with Felix to his room, and she with Sheila to hers, bewildered, biting down consternation, trying desperately to behave ‘like a little lady,’ as her old nurse would have put it—­before Sheila, especially, whose hostility she knew by instinct she had earned.  All that evening, furtive watching, formal talk, and underneath a ferment of doubt and fear and longing.  All a mistake!  An awful mistake!  Did he love her?  Heaven!  If he did not, she could never face any one again.  He could not love her!  His eyes were like those of a swan when its neck is drawn up and back in anger.  Terrible—­having to show nothing, having to smile at Sheila, at Dad, and Mother!  And