With a song upon her lips she burst into the kitchen and caught up the rolling pin. "Am I not awfully late?" she exclaimed. "I was afraid you would have done it all before I came, but you wouldn't be so mean as to take an advantage, would you?" Mrs. Penfold grunted. "It's all nonsense, Miss Stella, there's no occasion for it." Stella, with her hand in the flour, elevated the rolling-pin in heroic style. "Mrs. Penfold!" she exclaimed, with the air of a princess, "the woman, be her station what it may, who cannot make a jam roley-poley or an apple tart is unworthy the name of an Englishwoman. Give me the jam; stop though, don't you think rhubarb would be very nice for a change?" "I wish you'd go and play the organ, Miss Stella, and leave the rhubarb alone." "Man cannot live on music," retorted Stella; "his soul craves for puddings. I wonder whether uncle's soul craves for jam or rhubarb. I think I'll go and ask him," and dropping the rolling-pin--which Mrs. Penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on the floor--she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and ran into the studio. "Uncle! I have come to lay before you the rival claims of rhubarb and strawberry jam. The one is sweet and luscious to the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young, but somewhat sour----" "Good Heavens! What are you talking about?" exclaimed the bewildered painter, staring at her. "Rhubarb or jam. Now, noble Roman, speak or die!" she exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart with rippling laughter. Mr. Etheridge stared at her with all an artist's admiration in his eyes. "Oh! the pudding," he said, then he suddenly stopped, and stared beyond her. CHAPTER VI. Stella heard a step on the threshold of the window, and turning to follow the direction of his eyes, saw the stalwart form of Lord Leycester standing in the window. He was dressed in a suit of brown velveteen, with tight-fitting breeches and stockings, and carried a whip in his hand with which he barred the entrance against a couple of colleys, a huge mastiff, and a Skye terrier, the last barking with furious indignation at being kept outside. Even at the moment of surprise, Stella was conscious of a sudden reluctant thrill of admiration for the graceful figure in the close-fitting velvet, and the handsome face with its dark eyes regarding her with a grave, respectful intenseness. "Back dogs!" he said. "Go back, Vix!" then as they drew back, the big ones throwing themselves down on the path with patient obedience, he came into the room. "I beg your pardon," he said, standing before Stella, his head bent. "I thought Mr. Etheridge was alone, or I should not have entered in this rough fashion."