“Bertram Henshaw,” she panted, “I used to think you were wonderful because you could paint a picture. I even used to think I was a little wonderful because I could write a song. Well, I don't any more! But I'll tell you who _is_ wonderful. It's Eliza and Rosa, and all the rest of those women who can get a meal on to the table all at once, so it's fit to eat!” “Why, Billy!” gasped Bertram again, falling back to the door he had closed behind him. “What in the world does this mean?” “Mean? It means I'm getting dinner,” choked Billy. “Can't you see?” “But--Pete! Eliza!” “They're sick--I mean he's sick; and I said I'd do it. I'd be an oak. But how did I know there wasn't anything in the house except stuff that took hours to cook--only potatoes? And how did I know that _they_ cooked in no time, and then got all smushy and wet staying in the water? And how did I know that everything else would stick on and burn on till you'd used every dish there was in the house to cook 'em in?” “Why, Billy!” gasped Bertram, for the third time. And then, because he had been married only six months instead of six years, he made the mistake of trying to argue with a woman whose nerves were already at the snapping point. “But, dear, it was so foolish of you to do all this! Why didn't you telephone? Why didn't you get somebody?” Like an irate little tigress, Billy turned at bay. “Bertram Henshaw,” she flamed angrily, “if you don't go up-stairs and tend to that man up there, I shall _scream_. Now go! I'll be up when I can.” And Bertram went. It was not so very long, after all, before Billy came in to greet her guest. She was not stately and imposing in royally sumptuous blue velvet and ermine; nor yet was she cozy and homy in bronze-gold crêpe de Chine and swan's-down. She was just herself in a pretty little morning house gown of blue gingham. She was minus the dust-cap and the ruffled apron, but she had a dab of flour on the left cheek, and a smutch of crock on her forehead. She had, too, a cut finger on her right hand, and a burned thumb on her left. But she was Billy--and being Billy, she advanced with a bright smile and held out a cordial hand--not even wincing when the cut finger came under Calderwell's hearty clasp. “I'm glad to see you,” she welcomed him. “You'll excuse my not appearing sooner, I'm sure, for--didn't Bertram tell you?--I'm playing Bridget to-night. But dinner is ready now, and we'll go down, please,” she smiled, as she laid a light hand on her guest's arm. Behind her, Bertram, remembering the scene in the kitchen, stared in sheer amazement. Bertram, it might be mentioned again, had been married six months, not six years.