“Yes.” “Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” “Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. “Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and olive.” They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. “I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?” “Fifteen, Miss Jose.” “Well, cook, I congratulate you.” Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. “Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had seen the man pass the window. That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. “Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. “Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura. “I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.” “Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma won’t know.” Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whipped cream. “Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such awfully nice men.” But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. Something had happened. “Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” “There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.” “A man killed! Where? How? When?” But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his very nose. “Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of course, she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed.” “Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. “Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They were taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook, “He’s left a wife and five little ones.”