Clare gave her a short laugh.
"Anyhow, it doesn't appeal any more. Never mind, Miss Durand, I shall manage—I mustn't keep you."
Alwynne disregarded the hint. She seemed preoccupied.
"There aren't any eggs, I suppose," she ventured diffidently.
Clare flung out vague hands.
"Heaven knows! It's Bagot's business. Why?"
"Because," Alwynne had crossed the room and was struggling with a stiff cupboard door, "Elsbeth says I'm a fool at cooking (Elsbeth's my aunt, you know), but I can make omelets——" The door gave suddenly and Alwynne fell forward into the dark pantry. There was a clatter as of scattered bread-pans. She soon emerged, however, floury but serene.
"Yes! There are some! It wouldn't take ten minutes, Miss Hartill. That is—if——" she sought delicately for a tactful phrase: "if you would perhaps like to go away and read. If any one stands about and watches—you know what I mean——"
"Are you proposing to cook my lunch?" Clare demanded.
"Of course, if you don't like omelets," said Alwynne demurely.