but as you were not, I ate cold meat. Now there are only scraps."
"Perhaps if you were to turn out the Noyeau jelly in a shape, Tryphœna, it would give the lunch a more distinguished look."
"Scraps of cold boiled mutton and Noyeau jelly! No, that won't do. The jelly must be warmed and melted into the shape, and take three hours to cool."
"I wish I had taken her to the Holborn Restaurant," groaned Welsh; "what difficulties encumber domestic arrangements!"
"Without a cook—yes," added his wife.
"Do go in and welcome her," urged Mr. Welsh.
"I cannot in this condition. You know I have no cook, and must attend to everything. The girl has been impudent this morning, and has given me notice."
Whilst this discussion was being carried on, Arminell tried not to listen, but the whispers were pitched so high, and were so articulate, that scarce a word escaped her.
Then Mr. Welsh whispered, "Do lower your voice, Tryphœna," and the pair drifted down the passage to the head of the kitchen steps, and what was further discussed there was inaudible.
Arminell looked round the room. Its most prominent feature was the gas-lamp with double burner and globes—the latter a little smoked, suspended from the ceiling by a telescopic tube that allowed just sufficient gas to escape at the joints to advertise itself as gas, not paraffin or electric fluid. This room was the one in which, apparently, Mrs. Welsh sat when she had a cook, and was not engrossed in domestic affairs. Her work-box, knitting, a railway novel, bills paid and unpaid, and one of Mr. Welsh's stockings with a hole in the heel, showed that she occupied this apartment occasionally.
The door opened, and Mrs. Welsh entered, followed by
