"Oh, but you must, indeed!" declares she, in a friendly fashion, with a decisive shake of the head and uplifted brows. Now, Mr. Gower, poor soul, hates cake. "Thanks, awfully," he says, in a deprecating tone, "I know it's nice, very nice, but--er--the fact is I can't bear cake. It--it's horrid, I think." "Not this one," says Dulce remorselessly--"you have never eaten a cake like this. Let me let you into a little secret; I am very fond of cooking, and I made this cake _all myself_, with my own hands, every bit of it! There! Now, you really must eat it, you know, or I shall think you are slighting my attempts at housewifery." "Oh! if you really made it _yourself_," says the doomed young man, in a resigned tone, trying to light his rejected countenance with an artificial smile, "that makes such a difference, you know. I shall quite enjoy it now. But--er"--glancing doubtfully at her small white hands, "did you really make it yourself?" "Should I say it, if not sure?" reproachfully; "I even mixed it all up, _so_," with a pantomimic motion of her fingers, that suggests the idea of tearing handfuls of hair out of somebody's head. "I put in the raisins and currants and everything myself, while cook looked on. And she says I shall be quite a grand cook myself presently if--if I keep to it; she says, too, I have quite the right turn in my wrists for making cakes." "Is this the cook you don't like?" asks he, gloomily, while sadly consuming the cake she has pressed upon him. He is eating it slowly and with care; there is, indeed, no exuberant enjoyment in his manner, no touch of refined delight as he partakes of the delicacy manufactured by his dainty hostess. "Yes," says Miss Blount, in a somewhat changed tone. "But what do _you_ know of her?" "I think she's a humbug," says Gower, growing more moody every instant. "Then you mean, of course, that she didn't mean one word she said to me, and that--that in effect, I can't make cakes?" says Dulce, opening her large eyes, and regarding him in a manner that embarrasses him to the last degree. He rouses himself, and makes a supreme effort to retrieve his position. "How could you imagine I meant that?" he says, putting the last morsel of the cake, with a thankful heart, into his mouth. "I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much as this." "Really, you liked it? You thought it--" "Delicious," with effusion. "Have some more!" says Dulce, generously, holding out to him the cake plate near her. "Take a big bit. Take"--she has her eyes fixed rather searchingly upon his--"_this_ piece." Something in her manner warns him it will be unwise to refuse; with a sinking heart he takes the large piece of cake she has pointed out to him, and regards it as one might prussic acid. His courage fails him. "Must I," he says, turning to her with a sudden and almost tearful change of tone, "must I eat all this?" "Yes--all!" says Miss Blount, sternly.