“If I were a man,” she said, “I’d be able to help father. I’d understand figures and charts and all those things he works with. They make my silly head ache. I’d study finance. What is it like?” “What is finance like?” “Yes. Do you think I might understand it a little?” For an hour or more we talked finance,--that is, I talked and she listened, saying, “Yes,” and “Oh,” and bringing her chair closer. She made a very pretty picture of attention. I’m sure she didn’t understand a word of it. Then she began to ask me questions about her father,--what his office was like, how he dealt with Wall Street people, what he did on the Stock Exchange, and so on. “Must you?” she asked, when I rose to go. “I’m afraid you haven’t been entertained at all. I love to listen.” “I just now remember I haven’t had any dinner,” I said. “I stopped late at the office and came directly here. It’s past ten o’clock.” “Dear me! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll get you something. You didn’t know I could cook. Come on.” Without waiting for yes or no she scurried off in the direction of the kitchen. I followed to call her back, but when I had reached the dining room she was out of sight, the pantry door swinging behind her. I returned to the parlor and waited, thinking she would report what there was to eat. Then I could make my excuses and depart. She did not return. Presently I began to feel embarrassed, as much for her as for myself; also a little nettled. However, I couldn’t disappoint her now. It would be too late to stop whatever she was doing. She had said, “Come on.” Therefore she was expecting me in the kitchen and was probably by this time in a state of hysterical anxiety, wondering if I would come, or if perhaps I had gone; and no way out of the frolic she had started but to see it through. I found her beating eggs in a yellow bowl. She had put on an apron and turned up her sleeves. Her face was flushed, her eyes were bright with a spirit of fun, and wisps of wavy black hair had fallen a little loose at her temples. I surrendered instantly. “You won’t mind eating in the kitchen, will you? It’s cozy,” she said, almost too busy to give me a look. A small table was already spread for one; chairs were placed for two. “This is much more interesting than finance,” I said, watching her at close range. “I can make a perfect omelette,” she said. “So light you don’t know you are eating it. You only taste it.” “Not very filling,” I thought. “There may be something else, too,” she said. There was. She rifled the pantry. The imponderable omelette, accompanied by bacon, was followed by cold chicken, ham, sausage, asparagus, salad, cheese of two kinds, jams in fluttering uncertainty, cake and coffee. When she was convinced at last that I couldn’t encompass another bite and rested upon her achievement she began to giggle. “What’s that for?” “I’m thinking,” she said, “what my sister would say if she saw us now.”