brilliant Parisian entertainments, was of no assistance to her.
The kitchen was spacious and comfortable. There was a great range, which burned coal in the winter, and a gasolene stove for use in the summer; sinks, white tables, white cupboards. A row of wide windows looked out over the garden and lawn. Through them she caught a glimpse of a crescentshaped bed of day-lilies and bleeding-hearts and, beyond, a clump of peonies shaking their shaggy, impertinent, rose heads. Lou was busy removing shrimps from tins; the cook was preparing mayonnaise dressing; on the back porch Anna was turning the handle of the ice-cream freezer.
Can't I help? the Countess demanded cheerfully.
Lou looked up but did not reply; an expression of horror unmasked her thought. The expression was repeated, echoed, on the face of the cook. Ella was mystified until she suddenly recollected that her cigarette remained between her lips.
Can't I help? she asked again, even more pleasantly than before.
O, we don't want you to work, Lou replied at last. There's nothing you can do.
Nonsense! There must be something.
Lou had an inspiration: There are the flowers. I wonder . . .
Just the thing. I'll cut the flowers.
Get the Countess the shears, Lou directed the cook. She turned back to Ella. We'll want bush-
