Now, the kitchen window looks out upon the path he means to tread;--not only the kitchen window, but Molly. And as Luttrell comes by, with his head bent and a general air of moodiness about him, she is so far flattered by his evident dullness that she cannot refrain from tapping at the glass to call his attention. "Have you been enjoying yourself?" asks she, innocently. "You _look_ as if you had." He starts as her voice so unexpectedly meets his ear, and turns upon her a face from which all _ennui_ has fled. "Do I?" he says. "Then my looks lie. _Enjoying_ myself, with a pack of small demons! For what do you take me? No, I have been wretched. What on earth are you doing down there? You have been _hours_ about it already. Surely, whatever it is, it must be done now. If you don't come out shortly you will have murder on your soul, as I feel suicidal." "I can't come yet." "Then would you let me--might I----" "Oh, come here if you like," says Molly. "_I_ don't mind, if you don't." Without waiting further invitation, Luttrell goes rapidly round, descends the kitchen steps, and presently finds himself in Molly's presence. It is a pretty old-fashioned, low-ceilinged kitchen, full of quaint corners and impossible cupboards so high up in the wall as at first sight to be pronounced useless. A magnificent fire burns redly, yet barely causes discomfort. (Why is it that a fire in the kitchen fails to afflict one as it would, if lit in summer, in the drawing-room or parlor?) Long, low benches, white as snow, run by the walls. The dresser--is there anything prettier than a well-kept dresser?--shines out conceitedly from its own place, full of its choicest bravery. In the middle of the gleaming tiles stands the table, and beside it stands Molly. Such a lovely Molly!--a very goddess of a Molly! Her white arms, bare to the elbow, are covered with flour; a little patch of it has found a resting-place on the right side of her hair, where undoubtedly one hand must have gone to punish some amorous lock that would wander near her lips. Her eyes are full of light; her very lips are smiling. Jane, the cook, at a respectful distance, is half ashamed at the situation of her young lady; the young lady is not at all ashamed. "Do you like me?" cries she, holding her floury arms aloft. "Are you lost in admiration? Ah! you have yet to learn how universal are my gifts. I can _cook_!" "Can you?" says Luttrell, with a grimace. "What are you making now? I am anxious to know." "Positively," bending a little forward, the better to see him; "you look it. Why?" "That I may avoid it by and by." Here, with a last faint glimmer of prudence, he retires to the other end of the table. "Have you come here to insult me in my own domain?" cries Molly wrathfully. "Rash youth, you rush upon your fate; or, to speak more truthfully, your fate intends to rush on you. Now take the consequences."