"Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple dinner--soup, fish, an entree, one solid course, sweets--lots of cream, please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you'll arrange all that. That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu ready." The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would require a "rise," if they expected a party dinner every night. If Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her dumb. "Soles," she repeated stolidly. "And soup. What kind of soup?" "_Clear_!" said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but cook cut short her retreat. "Entree, you said, Ma'am. What kind of entree? And there's lunch. And breakfast. To-morrow's breakfast. Would it be bacon?" Grizel waved an impatient hand. "Bacon certainly. And er--omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual things one _does_ have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish, please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We've discussed everything, I think." She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered face. "And I'm sure," she added daringly, "you'll manage splendidly with dripping!" In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a passage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin's sanctum. Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole. "Martin!" A voice from within answered with would-be sternness: "Go away!" "Martin... I'm sorry! Just _one_ moment... Something I _must_ ask you.--Most important..." "Go on, then... What is it?" "_What--Is--Lard_?" The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold. "You goose! What on earth are you talking about?" "That's just it. I don't know. And how on earth am I to find out! I've been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or don't I, and why should I not, and for goodness' sake _how_ does it differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly. I thought I'd better find out at once." "Yes, but you mustn't come running to me for such information. I've got to buy the lard, remember, and I shan't be able to afford it, if I'm interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine..."