"But, Cookie dear," commenced Ridgwell insinuatingly.
Cookie dear continued the mystic rights over which she presided as high priestess, her vermilion red hands and arms continued to splash about in a very big basin, where she contrived to throw up little waves of very white flour as if she were about to take a morning dip in it, yet hesitated before taking the plunge. These mysterious rites having been accomplished and the flour having as it were received a final blessing from Cookie's hands, Cookie commenced to beat up eggs.
"I know you've come wheedling for something," objected Cookie, "and you ain't going to 'ave it, Master Ridgie. Why, you've only just finished your breakfast."
"I don't want anything to eat," announced Ridgwell.
Cookie eyes boiled and rolled ominously, whilst a sort of faint concern appeared upon the surface of them. "If you can't eat, Master Ridgie, then you must be ill and want some medicine."
"No, no," hastily interposed Ridgwell, "I don't want any medicine, we only came in to ask you a question."
"Well, you can't ask me any of your questions now, I'm busy," asserted
Cookie. "Ain't got no time."
"Oh, Cookie dear, you can listen whilst you beat up an egg," expostulated Ridgwell.
"Egg!" shouted Cookie indignantly, "three blessed eggs for your cake, and 2 1/2d. each, new laid too, and I only bought a dozen of 'em."
"Yes, yes, Cookie dear. I meant three eggs, the number doesn't matter, and it won't take a minute for us to tell you. It's just this. Suppose a great big beautiful Lion came and sat in the middle of the raspberry canes just outside your kitchen door, what would you do?"