Very well, she would show them. She would tend to her husband and her home. She fancied she could _learn_ to run that house, and run it well! And forthwith she descended to the kitchen and told the then reigning tormentor that her wages would be paid until the end of the week, but that her services would be immediately dispensed with. Billy was well aware now that housekeeping was a matter of more than muffins and date puffs. She could gauge, in a measure, the magnitude of the task to which she had set herself. But she did not falter; and very systematically she set about making her plans. With a good stout woman to come in twice a week for the heavier work, she believed she could manage by herself very well until Eliza could come back. At least she could serve more palatable meals than the most of those that had appeared lately; and at least she could try to make a home that would not drive Bertram to club dinners, and Uncle William to hungry wanderings from room to room. Meanwhile, all the time, she could be learning, and in due course she would reach that shining goal of Housekeeping Efficiency, short of which--according to Aunt Hannah and the “Talk to Young Wives”--no woman need hope for a waneless honeymoon. So chaotic and erratic had been the household service, and so quietly did Billy slip into her new role, that it was not until the second meal after the maid's departure that the master of the house discovered what had happened. Then, as his wife rose to get some forgotten article, he questioned, with uplifted eyebrows: “Too good to wait upon us, is my lady now, eh?” “My lady is waiting on you,” smiled Billy. “Yes, I see _this_ lady is,” retorted Bertram, grimly; “but I mean our real lady in the kitchen. Great Scott, Billy, how long are you going to stand this?” Billy tossed her head airily, though she shook in her shoes. Billy had been dreading this moment. “I'm not standing it. She's gone,” responded Billy, cheerfully, resuming her seat. “Uncle William, sha'n't I give you some more pudding?” “Gone, so soon?” groaned Bertram, as William passed his plate, with a smiling nod. “Oh, well,” went on Bertram, resignedly, “she stayed longer than the last one. When is the next one coming?” “She's already here.” Bertram frowned. “Here? But--you served the dessert, and--” At something in Billy's face, a quick suspicion came into his own. “Billy, you don't mean that you--_you_--” “Yes,” she nodded brightly, “that's just what I mean. I'm the next one.” “Nonsense!” exploded Bertram, wrathfully. “Oh, come, Billy, we've been all over this before. You know I can't have it.” “Yes, you can. You've got to have it,” retorted Billy, still with that disarming, airy cheerfulness. “Besides, 'twon't be half so bad as you think. Wasn't that a good pudding to-night? Didn't you both come back for more? Well, I made it.”