The kitchen clock ticked like a conscience; a faint perfume of frying-pan and mint scented the air.

And, for the first time since this new sensation of love had come to her, Nedda felt as if a favorite book, read through and done with, were dropping from her hands.

The lovely times in that kitchen, in every nook of that old house and garden, would never come again! Gone! She felt suddenly cast down to sadness.

They HAD been lovely times! To be deserting in spirit all that had been so good to her--it seemed like a crime! She slid down off the table and, passing behind the cook, put her arms round those substantial sides.

Without meaning to, out of sheer emotion, she pressed them somewhat hard, and, as from a concertina emerges a jerked and drawn-out chord, so from the cook came a long, quaking sound; her apron fell, her body heaved, and her drowsy, flat, soft voice, greasy from pondering over dishes, murmured: "Ah, Miss Nedda! it's you, my dear! Bless your pretty 'eart." But down Nedda's cheeks, behind her, rolled two tears.
"Cookie, oh, Cookie!" And she ran out....
And the first moment?
It was like nothing she had dreamed of.