"Because," Alwynne had crossed the room and was struggling with a stiff cupboard door, "Elsbeth says I'm a fool at cooking (Elsbeth's my aunt, you know), but I can make omelets----" The door gave suddenly and Alwynne fell forward into the dark pantry. There was a clatter as of scattered bread-pans. She soon emerged, however, floury but serene. "Yes! There are some! It wouldn't take ten minutes, Miss Hartill. That is--if----" she sought delicately for a tactful phrase: "if you would perhaps like to go away and read. If any one stands about and watches--you know what I mean----" "Are you proposing to cook my lunch?" Clare demanded. "Of course, if you don't like omelets," said Alwynne demurely. Clare laughed outright. "I do--I do. All right, Miss Durand, I'm too hungry to refuse. But I see through it, you know. It's to cry quits!" Alwynne broke in indignantly-- "It isn't! It's the _amende honorable_--at least, if it doesn't scorch." "All right, I accept it!" Clare pacified her; then, as she left the kitchen, "Miss Durand?" "Yes, Miss Hartill?" "Are you going to make one for Miss Vigers?" Alwynne's face fell. "I'd forgotten Miss Vigers." Clare twinkled. "Perhaps--if it doesn't scorch--I'll see what I can do," she promised her. The lunch was a success. Alwynne, dishing up, had her hat ordered off her head, and was soon sharing the omelet and marvelling at herself for being where she was, and Clare, for her part, found herself enjoying her visitor as much as her meal.