The lad begged for pardon. “What do you know about food?” he raved on. “Accustomed to nothing but raw turnips hitherto, how can you possibly tell whether cooking is good or not? Be off and see about your work, or else I’ll get you shifted back to that toad-in-the-hole station in the country. Coming up here,” continued Swan aggrievedly, “and dictating to Londoners about food—I never heard of such impudence!” He strode to the porters’ room’, and, flinging off his jacket, sat at the desk and took a penholder, assuming the attitude of mental stress common to those who start upon literary efforts. Like many others in similar position, he found himself baulked at the very start. Should he, in writing to excuse himself from paying his call until after the hour of supper, begin, “My dear Madam” or “Dear Friend,” or, his memory going back to the days of youth, dare to write “Sweetest”? He tried all of these, and others, and could not persuade himself to feel satisfied with any. The old remedy of shining boots gave him an idea that brought back contentment to his features, and he went about his tasks for the remainder of the day humming cheerfully. At six o’clock he ran around to the eating-house near to the station and ordered a special eightpenny steak, with chipped potatoes. “That’ll save me!” remarked Porter Swan. In marching down towards Railway Terrace he could not help thinking of his soldier days when there was never a dearth of housemaids, and never a one who did not, sooner or later, betray some defect which led to cessation of amiabilities. Here, again, was a case of a trim little woman who, if she but knew how to cook, might well be either highly commended or, perhaps, awarded the prize of second marriage. He had enjoyed his meal at the eating-house, and felt willing to look on the world with an indulgent air; nevertheless, he could not help seeing the drawback was serious. “Hullo, my dear!” as the child opened the door. “How are we this time?” “Brought me anythink?” “What do you say to a few chocolates?” “Mr. Swan,” called a pleasant voice from the kitchen, “don’t you go spoiling her. She’s not been behaving nicely.” “Hand ’em over!” ordered the youngster. The mother came through the passage, slightly flushed by the fire or from confusion, reproved her daughter for want of manners, gave a welcome to Mr. Swan, and expressed a hope that he had a good appetite. “Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he replied anxiously. “If I don’t get better I shall have to see a chemist. I could no more touch food at the present moment than I could swim the Channel. I’m very sorry, but you must excuse me, reelly.” “It’s a pity,” she said with distress. “You don’t mind sitting down and watching us eat, I hope.” “That’ll suit me,” declared Swan, entering the room. The table was neatly set out for three, with glasses, shining knives and forks, an attractive roll of bread at each plate. She went to the kitchen.