"I'm not so sure of that," said Annie, belligerently. "I told her this was the last time, the very last." "I'll bet you a quarter she comes back," said he, brightly. "Gee! What a sport you are!" scoffed Annie. He flushed. "Will you please set the table?" "It's set." "Oh!" "I'll help you make the toast, if you'd like," said she, a sudden feeling of pity for him coming into her niggardly soul. "Thanks," he said, briskly. "And the tea, too?" "I think we'd better have coffee," said she, asserting a preference for the housemaid's joy. "Just as you say," he acquiesced, hastily. "Where is Phoebe?" "Next door with the Butler kids--children, I mean. Maybe they'll ask her to stay to lunch." He gave her a surprise. "Go over and tell her to come home. I don't want her staying to luncheon with those damned Butlers." She stared, open-mouthed. "I'm sure, sir, they're quite as good as--as we are. What have you got against 'em?" He could not tell her that Butler, who worked in a bank, never took the trouble to notice him except when Nellie was out to spend Sunday. "Never mind. Go and get Phoebe." He made a dash for the kitchen, and when the exasperated Annie returned a few minutes later with Phoebe--rebellious Phoebe, who at that particular moment hated her father--he was in his shirt-sleeves and aproned, breaking eggs over a skillet on the gas stove. His face was very red, as if considerable exertion had been required. Phoebe was pouting when she came in, but the sight of her father caused her to set up a shriek of glee. "What fun, daddy!" she cried. "Now we'll never need Bridget again. I don't like her. You will be our cook, won't you?" Annie's sarcastic laugh annoyed him. "I used to do all the cooking when the Owl Club went camping," he announced, entirely for Annie's benefit. "In Blakeville?" asked Annie, with a grin. "Yes, in Blakeville," he exploded, almost dropping the cigarette from his lips into the skillet. His blue eyes flashed ominously. Annie, unused to the turning of the worm, caught her breath. Suddenly obsessed by the idea that he was master in his own house, he began strutting about the kitchen, taking mental note of the things that needed attention, with a view to reproving Bridget when she came back to the fold. He burnt his fingers trying to straighten the stovepipe, smelt of the dish-cloths to see if they were greasy, rattled the pans and bethought himself of the eggs just in the nick of time. In some haste and embarrassment he removed the skillet from the fire just as Annie came out of the pantry with the bread and the coffee can. "Where's the platter?" he demanded, holding the skillet at arm's length. "They're fried." "They'll be stone cold," said she, "waiting for the coffee to boil. You ain't got any water boiling." "I thought, perhaps, we'd better have milk," he said, gathering his wits.