“Since when were you called Dr. Bartram?” asked Tibby mockingly. “I was only prescribing the ounce of prevention,” returned Donald. “O, the cure comes later, I suspect.” “I am afraid it will have to, for one so careless as you are inclined to be.” “This is a lovely day for a ride. I am going to ride Tempest over to Anna Falkner’s,” Tibby continued, ignoring his remark. “Better not go so far. This bright morning is a weather breeder. I can feel snow in the air.” “Mr. Bartram, the role of mentor does not become you.” “Think not? How am I as a weather prophet?” “Worse and worse! One could have no faith in your predictions.” “Not until they have been proven correct, perhaps.” “Tibby,” said Elinor Wylie, interrupting them, “hadn’t you better come in and make an angel-food cake this morning? Alice is busy and the girl doesn’t know how.” “Certainly, there’s nothing I like to do so well,” responded Tibby cheerfully, springing up the steps and starting toward the kitchen. “Sha’n’t I come too?” asked Donald. “I want to learn to cook; besides, you don’t know how useful I can make myself.” “Do you hear that, Mrs. Wylie? The audacity of the man! As chief cook I am queen of the kitchen and no intruder dare enter its precincts.” “Without invitation, of course. But I expect to be invited.” “O, you do? The conceit of some people is unbearable. Well, if you will be upon your good behavior I’ll not be inhospitable. But see that you don’t talk too much and make me spoil the cake. What do you expect to do to help me?” “O, stone raisins, and build fires, and—and—look at you.” “Stone raisins? We don’t use them in this kind of cake, you ignorant fellow.” “Donald sat down by the stove and watched the girl as she broke the eggs and separated the yolks from the white, and dexterously whipped the latter to a snowy froth; then sifted the flour. “Whew! What a lot of eggs you use!” he exclaimed. “The whites of eleven only, and I’ll make a gold cake of the yolks. That’s economy.” “Ah, I understand.” “As you do the magic of Hermann. You wouldn’t know how to make this if you watched me make a dozen, I am sure.” “The whites of eleven eggs,” began Donald. “Yes, and one glass of flour sifted five times, with a teaspoonful of cream of tartar.” “But cream of tartar is sour, and cakes should be sweet, shouldn’t they?” questioned Donald. Tibby looked at him with an expression of pitying contempt. “I told you, you couldn’t understand it. It’s beyond your comprehension.” “Try me and see! What else do you put in this wonderful compound? Sugar, of course?” “Yes, one and one-half cups of sugar and a teaspoonful of flavoring. That’s all.” “O, that’s easy to remember,” said Donald, repeating it glibly. “Good boy! You’ll do with good tuition. Then you must _beat_, not _stir_, the sugar and flour and beaten eggs together in this way. See?” “Yes,” answered Donald, noting with admiring eyes the movements of the rounded wrists as she exemplified her instructions.