It was six or thereabouts when the 'horrid boy' returned. He was hungry--amazingly hungry--and apart from his experiment he really hoped that there was a very nice dinner ready. The white tablecloth was on the dining-room table and the flowers were exquisitely arranged, drooping blossoms of wistaria and delicate leaves on a ground of pale yellow silk. There were also some knives and forks in a heap, two salt-cellars and the silver gong. From the bedroom came doleful baby wails that filled all the cottage. From the kitchen a strong smell of burning. 'Gracious Lor,' said Peggie. But 'Hang it all!' was her master's remark. Peggie set her bandbox down and followed at his heels into the kitchen. Dot was standing over the fire. Nearly every piece of crockery in the house stood dirty upon the table. Egg shells lay about, the sugar jar, the currant, the peel, the pepper, the flour, and all the store cupboard were in evidence. She turned a peony face towards them. 'Dinner's not ready yet, and it's no use being cross, Larrie, if only you knew what a bother I've had with the fire.' She lifted a saucepan with a groan and set it aside. 'Is there _anything_ to eat?' Larrie asked in a tone not altogether mild. 'The place smells like a crematorium.' Dot sniffed. 'Does it?' she said. 'The meat's burnt, I couldn't help it, it burnt while I ran in to dress baby, and then a visitor came after I put some cakes and a batter pudding in the oven, and they burnt, there's a boiled pudding though, it'll be cooked in half-an-hour, and we can have eggs for once.' Peggie hastened to her bedroom to change her very best dress for an old one in which she might take command of her region. 'You really mean to say, Dot, that in all these hours you haven't been able to cook a little dinner,' Larrie began. His chin squared itself, his lips closed. 'It's no good making faces, my good man,' Dot said. 'I've cut my thumb, and I've burnt my wrist, and had sparks in my eyes, and now this is all the thanks I get.' 'Eggs when a man comes in hungry for his dinner!--and a pudding not cooked! The table--' '_Will_ you go out of the kitchen, Laurence Armitage,' Dot said facing round. 'Do you think I've not had enough without _you_ beginning?' '--The table not set and a crying baby,' Larrie went on. 'Larrie, _do_ you want to provoke me into throwing a saucepan at your head like an Irish washerwoman?' Dot said. She took the lid off the potatoes and disclosed a pulpy mass boiled out of all recognition. 'I don't profess to be perfect; accidents will happen even to the sister Charlottes.' 'It's this kind of thing that drives a man from his home to seek comfort and pleasure elsewhere,' Larrie said darkly. He really felt exceedingly ill-used, and Dot's heated face and worried expression did not appeal to him at all.