“It was the idea of the thing,” replied my mother. “She has never been used to waiting at table. She was actually crying about it only last night.” “But what's to be done?” said my father. “They will be here in less than an hour.” “There will be no dinner for them,” said my mother, “unless I put on an apron and bring it up myself.” “Where does she live?” asked my father. “At Ilford,” answered my mother. “We must make a joke of it,” said my father. My mother, sitting down, began to cry. It had been a trying week for my mother. A party to dinner--to a real dinner, beginning with anchovies and ending with ices from the confectioner's; if only they would remain ices and not, giving way to unaccustomed influences, present themselves as cold custard--was an extraordinary departure from the even tenor of our narrow domestic way; indeed, I recollect none previous. First there had been the house to clean and rearrange almost from top to bottom; endless small purchases to be made of articles that Need never misses, but which Ostentation, if ever you let her sneering nose inside the door, at once demands. Then the kitchen range--it goes without saying: one might imagine them all members of a stove union, controlled by some agitating old boiler out of work--had taken the opportunity to strike, refusing to bake another dish except under permanently improved conditions, necessitating weary days with plumbers. Fat cookery books, long neglected on their shelf, had been consulted, argued with and abused; experiments made, failures sighed over, successes noted; cost calculated anxiously; means and ways adjusted, hope finally achieved, shadowed by fear. And now with victory practically won, to have the reward thus dashed from her hand at the last moment! Downstairs in the kitchen would be the dinner, waiting for the guests; upstairs round the glittering table would be the assembled guests, waiting for their dinner. But between the two yawned an impassable gulf. The bridge, without a word of warning, had bolted--was probably by this time well on its way to Ilford. There was excuse for my mother's tears. “Isn't it possible to get somebody else?” asked my father. “Impossible, in the time,” said my mother. “I had been training her for the whole week. We had rehearsed it perfectly.” “Have it in the kitchen,” suggested my aunt, who was folding napkins to look like ships, which they didn't in the least, “and call it a picnic.” Really it seemed the only practical solution. There came a light knock at the front door. “It can't be anybody yet, surely,” exclaimed my father in alarm, making for his coat. “It's Barbara, I expect,” explained my mother. “She promised to come round and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her.” My mother's nature was pessimistic.