In the kitchen they found Mrs. Harden, her ample figure enveloped in a gingham apron of bright yellow checks that seemed to fill the immaculate white kitchen with color. Bruce was a little dismayed by his sudden precipitation into the culinary department of the establishment. Millicent began piling a plate with warm jumbles; a maid appeared and began getting the tea things ready. Mrs. Harden, her face aglow from its recent proximity to the gas range, explained to Bruce that it was the cook’s afternoon out and at such times she always liked to cook something just to keep her hand in. She was proud of the kitchen with its white-tiled walls and flooring and glittering utensils. The library and the organ belonged to Millie, she said, but Doctor Harden had given her free swing to satisfy her own craving for an up-to-date kitchen. Bruce’s heart warmed under these revelations of the domestic sanctuary. Mrs. Harden’s motherliness seemed to embrace the world and her humor and sturdy common sense were strongly evident. She regaled Bruce with a story of a combat she had lately enjoyed with a plumber. She warned him that if he would succeed as an architect he must be firm with plumbers. Alone in the living-room with their tea, Millicent and Bruce continued to find much to discuss. She was gay and serious by turns, made him talk of himself, and finding that this evidently was distasteful to him, she led the way back to impersonal things again. “Why go when there will be dinner here pretty soon?” she asked when he rose. “Because I want to come back sometime! I want some more jumbles! It’s been a great afternoon for me. I do like the atmosphere of this house--kitchen and everything. And the outdoors was fine--and you----” “I hoped you’d remember I was part of the scenery!” “I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to--and I don’t! Do you suppose we could do it all over again--sometime when you’re not terribly busy?” “Oh, I’ll try to bear another afternoon with you!” “Or we might do a theater or a movie?” “Even that is possible.” He didn’t know that she was exerting herself to send him away cheerful. When he said soberly, his hand on the door, “You don’t know how much you’ve helped me,” she held up her finger warningly. “Not so serious! Always cheerful!--that’s the watchword!” “All right! You may have to say that pretty often.”