One dish I watched with special interest. She had taken a fine white powder and put it in a silver bowl. This she mixed with some other ingredients in less quantities. Then over the whole there was sprinkled a pure liquid which turned the whole mass to the palest shade of pink. Then, with a few dexterous turns of a special knife, the mixture began to fall in light flakes. To this some drops of oil that fell like crystal were added. It was left to stand in a refrigerator, whilst she prepared, on a polished framework, a shape of silver scales, tinted in parts with bluish grey. This done she returned to the hardened mass and moulded it with marvellous exactness to the form which she required. Over this, as a dainty covering, she folded the shining scales, and with the insertion of two softened jewels there appeared a fish so fine and real that not the most expert could ever have told it had not been caught in pure river water. She then took it to a stove and placed it where it was held in position by silver spikes. On touching a spring the stove was filled with light heat. “We never use fire,” she said, smiling. “I leave this here now, and it remains till wanted. The light gradually works its way through the whole, and then it has become what you call cooked to a nicety. Next, by a very exact mathematical process, this screw turns again, and the unnecessary light is cut off. But the light which has entered, and the heat, still remains within the body. Thus when required it is in perfect readiness, so that everything being properly cooked—that is, full of light—we never have heavy food, and so are spared the pangs of indigestion.” “You have a wonderful cookery-book,” said I. She laughed. “A good cook is a born artist, who can put the spirit of taste into his work,” she declared. “You little thought last night when you partook of that fair salmon that you were not partaker in the murderer’s spoil.” “Indeed, I remarked upon the delicacy of flavour.” “I know.” Thus was every dish prepared with a quickness and perfection very marvellous, so that as I watched I began to feel an appetite for dinner, though breakfast was just over. “There is not much to be done in this line to-day,” she observed, “for this afternoon we go to the city. According to our time, I generally spend one hour a day upon it, unless I am trying some new recipe or making an experiment.” And it seemed that in a marvellously short time there had appeared some of the daintiest dishes imaginable, savoury and sweet.