a little cake. Flour, two eggs, baking-powder, milk, vanilla extract — I had accomplished the thing a hundred times in my mother’s kitchen, as a boy, with the cook confining herself to looking on. This, with fried eggs, potatoes, tea, and, if Arbuthnot insisted, the sardines, would be ample, and forthwith I girded myself to the task. I observed with satisfaction that the confidence of my demeanour silenced Arbuthnot at once.
I suppose it was the baking-powder, although I managed to rescue all but a very little after I had upset it in the dough. Or else there wasn’t enough room in the oven for the confection to rise. Whatever the reason, the thing I made was a conspicuous failure as a cake, albeit it might have passed muster as a balloon. Arbuthnot merely snorted when I took it out, prying the crust off the roof of the oven with a carving-knife. It was quite black, and smelt abominably. It would never have done for me to leave it where it could
