"By the way, aren't you forgetting the bread ?" "By Jove!" he cried, flinging open the oven door.
Out puffed the bluish smoke and a smell of burned bread.
"Oh, golly!" cried Beatrice, coming to his side.

He crouched before the oven, she peered over his shoulder.

"This is what comes of the oblivion of love, my boy." Paul was ruefully removing the loaves.

One was burnt black on the hot side; another was hard as a brick.
"Poor mater!" said Paul.
"You want to grate it," said Beatrice.

"Fetch me the nutmeg-grater." She arranged the bread in the oven.