He went over to the gas stove. All the gas rings were being used. He’d better get one clear for his pudding. He supposed his pudding would need a gas ring same as all the other things. There were two small saucepans each containing dark brown stuff. They might as well be together, thought William, with a business-like frown. He poured the contents of one of the saucepans into the other. He had a moment’s misgiving as the mingled smell of gravy and coffee arose from the mixture. Then he turned to his pudding. He opened the book at random at the puddings. Any would do. “Beat three eggs together.” He fetched a bowl of eggs from the larder and got down a clean basin from the shelf. He’d seen Cook doing it, just cracking the eggs, and the egg slithered into the basin and she threw the shells away. It looked quite easy. He broke an egg. The shell fell neatly on to the table and the egg slithered down William on to the floor. He tried another and the same thing happened. William was not easily baulked. He was of a persevering nature. He went on breaking eggs till not another egg remained to be broken, and then and then only did he relinquish his hopes of making a pudding. Then and then only did he step out of the pool of a dozen broken eggs in which he was standing and, literally soaked in egg from the waist downward, go to replace the basin on the shelf.
His thirst for practical virtue was not yet sated. Surely there was something he could do, even if he couldn’t make a pudding. Yes, he could carry the things into the dining-room so that they could have dinner as soon as they came in. He opened the oven door. A chicken on a large dish was there. Good! Burning his fingers severely in the process William took it out. He’d put it on the dining-room table all ready for them to begin. Just as he stood with the dish in his hands he heard his mother and Robert come in. He’d go and give Robert Miss Dexter’s letter first. He looked round for somewhere to put the chicken. The table seemed to be full. He put the dish and the chicken on to the floor and went into the hall closing the door behind him. Robert and his mother had gone into the drawing-room. William followed.
“Well, William,” said Mrs. Brown pleasantly, “had a nice day?”
Without a word William handed the note to Robert.
Robert read it.
He went first red, then pale, then a wild look came into his eyes.
“Marion Dexter!” he said.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” said William. “You’ve been writing pomes to her.”
“Not to Marion Dexter,” screamed Robert. “She’s an old woman. She’s nearly twenty-five.... It’s—it’s Marion Hatherley I——”
“Well, how was I to know,” said William in a voice of irritation. “You should put their surnames in the pomes. I thought you wanted to be engaged to her. I’ve took a lot of trouble over it gettin’ her to write that.”