"I wish you'd go and play the organ, Miss Stella, and leave the rhubarb alone."
"Man cannot live on music," retorted Stella; "his soul craves for puddings. I wonder whether uncle's soul craves for jam or rhubarb. I think I'll go and ask him," and dropping the rolling-pin—which Mrs. Penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on the floor—she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and ran into the studio.
"Uncle! I have come to lay before you the rival claims of rhubarb and strawberry jam. The one is sweet and luscious to the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young, but somewhat sour——"
"Good Heavens! What are you talking about?" exclaimed the bewildered painter, staring at her.
"Rhubarb or jam. Now, noble Roman, speak or die!" she exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart with rippling laughter.
Mr. Etheridge stared at her with all an artist's admiration in his eyes.
"Oh! the pudding," he said, then he suddenly stopped, and stared beyond her.