You see Gerald, my brother, and I were invited to an American tournament
for that afternoon, which we were both awfully keen about; then mother
and father were coming home in the evening, after having been away a
fortnight, and, though on the whole I had got on quite nicely with the
housekeeping, it _would_ be a relief to be able to consult mother again.
Things have a knack of not going so smoothly when mothers are away, as I
daresay you've noticed.
I had been busy making strawberry jam, which had turned out very well,
all except the last lot. Gerald called me to see his new ferret just
after I had put the sugar in, and, by the time I got back, the jam had,
most disagreeably, got burnt.
That's just the way with cooking. You stand and watch a thing for ages,
waiting for it to boil; but immediately you go out of the room it
becomes hysterical and boils all over the stove; so it is borne in on
me that you must "keep your eye on the ball," otherwise the saucepan,
when cooking.
However, when things are a success it feels quite worth the trouble.
Gerald insisted on "helping" me once, rather against cook's wish, and
made some really delicious meringues, only he _would_ eat them before
they were properly baked!
The gong rang, and I ran down to breakfast; Gerald was late, as usual,
but he came at last.
"Here's a letter from Jack," I remarked, passing it across; "see what he
says.
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