She was standing stock still staring at the pastry she was making. She turned to me, and there was a curious smile about her lips.
"Do you know what you ought to be wearing?" she said. "Wings, and a little bow and arrow."
She didn't even think to wipe her hands, but went straight upstairs. It was about half an hour later when the bell rang. Mr. John was standing by the window.
"Is that bag ready?" he said.
"It will be," I said.
I went out into the hall and returned with the clothes brush.
"What are you going to do?" he said.
"Perhaps you don't know it," I said, "but you are all over flour."
"Cook's going with me to Scotland," he said.
I have looked after Mr. John ever since he was a boy. He was forty-two last birthday, but when I shook hands with him through the cab window I could have sworn he was twenty-five again.
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