Letitia was equally dismayed. "I declare I almost forget. Let me see: The white broth was to be mixed with the mirepoix; the mirepoix was for the _sauce Espagnole_; the _sauce Espagnole_ was for the _Perigueux sauce_; the _Perigueux sauce_ was for the eggs _à la Meyerbeer_. We know that, don't we? Well, for eggs _à la reine_. At present we know how to make eggs _à la Meyerbeer_. To cook eggs _à la reine_, you proceed as for eggs _à la Meyerbeer_, and then--" "I don't think we'll have any, Letitia," I ventured. "Really, I believe I can do without them. Anyway, they would be rather indigestible." "Well, I _will_ know the end," she declared pluckily. "I hate to be beaten. We know how to make eggs _à la Meyerbeer_. We know that, don't we? Well, for the eggs _à la reine_, you make a garnishing of one ounce of cooked chicken breast, one finely-shred, medium-sized truffle, and six minced mushrooms. You moisten with half a pint of good _Allemande sauce_, see No. 210. No, I won't see No. 210. You're right, Archie. We'll do without the eggs _à la reine_. This recipe is like the House That Jack Built, only much worse, for, you have to 'see' things all the time. We'll have just plain, soft-boiled eggs." "You might learn how to cook those, dear," I suggested timidly. "No, Letitia, don't be vexed. There must be an art in it. We've had four cooks, all unable to boil eggs. There must be a knack." Letitia sighed, and shut up the cook-book. Eggs _à la reine_ seemed as difficult as trigonometry, or conic sections, or differential calculus--and much more expensive. Certainly, the eight giggling cooks in the kitchen, now at the very height of their exhilaration, worried themselves little about such concoctions. My nerves again began to play pranks. The devilish pandemonium infuriated me. Letitia was tired and wanted to go to bed. I was tired and hungry and disillusioned. It was close upon midnight and the Swedish Thursday was about over. I thought it unwise to allow them even an initial minute of Friday. When the clock struck twelve, I marched majestically to the kitchen, threw open the door, revealed the octette in the enjoyment of a mound of ice-cream and a mountain of cake--that in my famished condition made my mouth water--and announced in a severe, jet subdued tone, that the revel must cease. "You must go at once," I said, "I am going to shut up the house." Then I withdrew and waited. There was a delay, during which a Babel of tongues was let loose, and then Miss Lyberg's seven guests were heard noisily leaving the house. Two minutes later, there was a knock at our door and Miss Lyberg appeared, her eyes blazing, her face flushed and the expression of the hunted antelope defiantly asserting that it would never be brought to bay, on her perspiring features. "You've insulted my guests!" she cried, in English as good as my own. "I've had to turn them out of the house, and I've had about enough of this place."