Virginia chose “The Scientific Adjustment of Food Values”; and, before she had got through the first chapter, started to blame me for giving them cheese _and_ butter, when I might know that both contained a sweeping majority of proteids. Whereas, what she found she really needed was cheese and water-melon (though cantaloupe might take its place), and why wasn’t there water-melon (or cantaloupe) on the table? She had known all her life long that she needed it—always had an undefinable longing steal o’er her about twelve o’clock midday and again at four-thirty—but her want had never been made articulate before, simply because she wasn’t sure of the name of the missing link. Now, however, if I expected to retain my hold on their affections, she must really ask me to see that water-melon—— But I was too deep in the enjoyment of a dish of anchovy and caviare canapes at the moment to interfere. I left her at it. * * * * * In the afternoon, as we were short of milk, I suggested that we should go ourselves to the Jones’s farm in search of more. There was a beaten track along the lanes now, so we took the tin milk-can and started off uphill, thereby just missing the Head of Affairs, who came swinging up the road from the village. Having seen the finally departing back of the very last workman, he had caught the next train and arrived unannounced. The wind was keen when he got up out of the valley, so he turned up his coat collar and rammed his cap well on his head. Finding the cottage door locked, he knocked briskly and started to inquire for me, when Eileen (whom he had never seen before, remember) opened the door in response to his knock. But, to his amazement, before he got a couple of words out, the door was banged to, in his face, and he was informed through the large keyhole— “The lady is not—I mean—she _is_ at home, but she is engaged; she is—er—she is entertaining friends and can’t see anyone.” Exceedingly bewildered, the caller waited a minute, trying in vain to catch sounds of hilarity within, and then rapped again; and, as the keyhole seemed the correct channel of communication, he said through the aperture— “Kindly tell your mistress that her husband is here.” There was a pause, then the voice within said— “The lady is sorry she can’t see _anyone_ to-day, as she is ill in bed.” The mystery thickened. Going round to the back door, which was also locked, the caller rapped more vigorously still. This time an agitated voice wailed from the inside— “Are you still there? Oh, _please_ go away!” But, though he was exceedingly astonished at this curious reception, he had no intention of going, and he said so. Eileen’s next question was unexpected. “What is your Christian name?” she began. He told her. “What is the colour of your hair?” He proceeded to describe himself, and added— “If you have any doubt about me, let the dog out, he’ll soon tell you if I’m a genuine case or an impostor.”