‘I dare say the children are tiresome, dear Mrs. Piper,’ she said, whereupon Bentham secretly put out his tongue at her, ‘but it must be a comfort to you to see them all in such good health.’ ‘Yes, my dear, it is. But I really think there never were such boisterous children. I am sure when they were all down with the measles the house was like ‘eaven. The way they use the furniture is enough to provoke a saint. I sometimes wish Piper hadn’t bought so many ‘andsome ornaments for my boodwar.’ And Mrs. Piper gave a heavy sigh, inwardly lamenting the ten-roomed villa in the broad high road outside Great Yafford--the best parlour which no one was allowed to enter--save on special occasions and under most restrictive conditions--and the everyday parlour, in which the shabby old furniture could hardly be the worse for ill-usage. ‘And now, Bella, we’ll go to the books,’ said Mrs. Piper, ‘they’re something awful this week. There’s fine goings on downstairs now that I can’t get about.’ ‘The boys being home from school must make a difference,’ suggested Bella. ‘After allowing amply for the boys, the bills are awful. Look at the baker’s book, Bella. It will freeze your blood.’ Bella looked, and was not actually frozen, though the amount was startling. The household expenses seemed to have been upon an ascending scale from the beginning of Mrs. Piper’s illness. That careful housewife’s seclusion had certainly relaxed the stringent economy by which larder and kitchen had been hitherto regulated. The tradesmen’s books were gone through one by one, Mrs. Piper lamenting much, and doubtful of almost every item. Why so much lard and butter, why so many eggs? There were mysterious birds in the poulterer’s book, inexplicable fish in the fishmonger’s. When they came to the butcher’s book things grew desperate, and the cook was summoned to render an account of her doings. Cook was a plausible young woman in a smart cap, and she proved too much for Mrs. Piper. She had an explanation for every pound of meat in the book, and her mistress dared not push inquiry to the verge of accusation, lest this smart young woman should take advantage of the impending season and resign her situation then and there, leaving Mrs. Piper to get her Christmas dinner cooked as she might. Piper was particular about his dinner. It was the one sensual weakness of a great mind, and if his meals fell in any way short of his requirements and expectations, his family circle suffered. The simoom in the desert was not more sudden or devastating than the whirlwind of Mr. Piper’s wrath in the dining-room, when the fish was sodden and sloppy, or the joint presented an interior stratum of rawness under an outer crust of scorched flesh. ‘Piper is _so_ particular,’ his wife would remark piteously, ‘and good cooks are so hard to get.’