'Just Winifred,' I said, taking her hand and preventing her from lifting the latch.
'I've lived,' said she, 'in a little cottage like this with my aunt and Miss Dalrymple and done everything.'
'Everything's a big word, Winifred. What may everything include in your case?'
'Include!' said Winifred; 'oh, everything, housekeeping and—'
'Housekeeping!' said I. 'Racing the winds with Rhona Boswell and other Gypsy children up and down Snowdon—that's been your housekeeping.'
'Cooking,' said Winifred, maintaining her point.
'Oh, what a fib, Winifred! These sunburnt fingers may have picked wild fruits, but they never made a pie in their lives.'
'Never made a pie! I make beautiful pies and things; and when we're married I'll make your pies—may I, instead of a conceited man-cook?'
'No, Winifred. Never make a pie or do a bit of cooking in my house,
I charge you.'
'Oh, why not?' said Winifred, a shade of disappointment overspreading her face. 'I suppose it's unladylike to cook.'