Martine was really excited. She knew Mrs. Tilworth's opinion of people who lived in apartments, and she had had a thrill of pleasant anticipation at the idea of Mrs. Tilworth's finding everything as homelike in their apartment as within the four walls of a detached house. To have to go outside to a hotel would indeed be ignominious--from Martine's present point of view. "Do you think Mrs. Stratford is strong enough to go to a hotel to dinner, after being out all the afternoon? I certainly shouldn't advise it." Angelina spoke with all the impressiveness of one in authority. "You make me think of a trained nurse, Angelina. But what in the world are we to do?" "Come with me," cried Angelina, and Martine, following her to the kitchen, noticed as she turned her head that there was a twinkle in Angelina's eye. "Perhaps there's something in the refrigerator," thought Martine; "refrigerators always are full of things that can be warmed over. We might call it 'luncheon' instead of 'dinner,' and tell Mrs. Tilworth that's the way we do in Chicago. She will believe anything about Western people." A glance at the refrigerator did not greatly encourage Martine. There were a quantity of cold potatoes, and a great roast of beef for their Sunday dinner, as well as eggs, bacon, milk, and butter. "How frightfully unattractive it all looks--and smells," cried Martine, slamming the door. "I never could be a good cook, for I hate the sight of raw food. But what _were_ we to have for dinner to-night? What _are_ we to have now? You wouldn't have brought me out here if you hadn't some plan. It's half-past four, and if anything's to be done, it ought to be doing now." "Oh, if you request me to take hold," said Angelina, "I shall be only too happy to accept your orders in your mother's place. Come, see!" and removing a cloth that had covered the kitchen table, she showed Martine an inviting array of vegetables and two pairs of small chickens. "First of all the dessert," she began. "Before the soup?" asked Martine. Then remembering that if she stood in her mother's place it would be undignified to trifle with Angelina, she waited for the latter to disclose her plans. "What I mean is this," continued the latter; "you can telephone to the creamery for ice-cream and cake. The cook had orders to make something with a long name, but that's impossible now. Then the black coffee--your brother loves to potter with that electric coffee machine--and there's plenty of crackers and cheese." "And finger bowls, too," said Martine, laughing, "that will finish the dinner. But how shall we begin? If we begin dinner well, it won't matter how it ends."