opened the door on his left, and ushered Arminell into the little apartment.
"Excuse me if I leave you," he said, "and excuse Mrs. Welsh for a bit. She is rummaging somewhere. We have, as she will tell you presently, no cook. The last——" he made pantomimic signs of putting a bottle to his lips. Then he went out, and for a while there reached Arminell from the narrow front passage, somewhat grandly designated the hall, sounds of the moving of her luggage.
A moment later, and a whispered conversation from outside the door reached her ears.
"It's no use—there are only scraps. How can you suggest rissoles? There is no time for the preparation of delicacies. If we are to have them, it must be for dinner. I did not expect you at noon, much less that you would be bringing a visitor. Your telegram arrived one minute before yourself."
"Not so loud," whispered James Welsh, "or she will hear. You must provide enough to eat, of course. Send out for steak."
"Nonsense, James; it is lunch time already. She must manage with scraps, and them cold scraps are wholesome. What doesn't poison fattens."
"You couldn't, I suppose, have the scraps warmed, or"—somewhat louder, with a flash of inspiration—" or converted into a haricot?"
"How can you talk like this, James? Go on, suggest that they shall be made into a mayonnaise next. To have hot meat means a fire, and there is none to speak of in the kitchen."
"Only dead scraps! My dear Tryphœna, she belongs to a titled family, a long way off and disowned, you understand, but still—there is a title in the family and—scraps!"
"What else will you have, James? Had you been home yesterday for dinner, there would have been joint, roast;
