So they marched out of George's bedroom, for that was where they had got to--and as no one ever need see that, he has it quite comfortable, and modern--and sneaked down-stairs by a different way. I followed them. Soon they got quite lost and were heading straight for the kitchen. I wondered if Elizabeth had taken off her domino, and gone back to her work, for though the supper was all sent in from a shop, there would be sure to be something for her to do. These two marched straight in, and I after them, and found themselves in a blaze of light and an empty kitchen--for the moment only, for one heard all the men stumping along from the dining-room on the other side, and the scullery-maid rinsing something in the scullery. Just as Lady Scilly and _The Bittern_ man burst in, Mother was standing alone, in a checked apron, before the kitchen-dresser, and turned right round and looked at them. She looked dignified and cold, in spite of the kitchen fire, which had caught her face on one side. Lady Scilly and _The Bittern_ man took no notice of her, but walked about looking at things. "And so this is the Poet's kitchen!" Lady Scilly said, rather scornfully. "How his pots shine!" "Very comfortable indeed!" said Mr. Frederick Cook. He seemed to despise George. Then he continued, laughing under his mask--"It's no end of a privilege to see the humble objects that minister to the Poet's use. This is his soup-ladle, and----" Mother made a little step forward and finished Mr. Cook's sentence for him. "And this is his dresser, and this is his boiler, that is his cat--and I'm his wife!" Lady Scilly skooted, Mr. Cook stayed behind and did a little bit of polite. He isn't a bad sort, and Mother rather liked him after that, and he began to come here. CHAPTER IX