“It's perfectly simple,” said Kathleen. “This is the oven, and when you want to bake anything--_Phew_!” she cried, opening the oven door, “what _have_ you got in here?” She took a cloth, and lifted out of the oven a tall china pitcher with a strange-looking object protruding from it. Eliza was panic stricken, and for an instant forgot her role. “My God! I put the hare in there and forgot all about it. What a bally sell!” Kathleen removed the hideous thing, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Look here, Eliza,” she said. “They may jug hares that way at Maggie Hall, but I doubt it. Now, what _can_ you cook? We've got guests coming to-night. A gentleman from America is going to be here and we must put our best foot forward.” Eliza's face was a study in painful emotion. “Excuse me, Miss,” she said, “but is that American gentleman called Mr. Blair?” “Yes,” said Kathleen. “Really, Eliza, you are most extraordinary. How did you know?” “I've heard of him,” said Eliza. “I think I ought to warn you against him, miss. He's--he's a counterfeiter.” “Nonsense, Eliza. What notions you do have! He's an antiquarian, and he's coming to see my father about archaeology. He's a friend of Miss Josephine, from Oxford. Now I think you'd better get on with your cooking and not worry about counterfeiters.” “Miss Kathleen,” said Eliza, “I think I'd better be frank with you. I want to tell you--” Here Mary came into the kitchen, and although Eliza Thick made frantic gestures to her to keep away, the housemaid was too dense to understand. The opportunity for confession was lost. “Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “Mary will help you in anything you're not certain about. I'll come down again later to see how you're getting on.”