I meet Bobby retiring to the kitchen to cook his mushrooms himself.

He invites me to join him, but I refuse.

It is the first time in the annals of history that I was ever known to say no to such an offer.

Bobby regards me with reproachful anger, and makes a muffled remark, the drift of which I understand to be that, though I may _pretend_ not to be, I _am_ grown fine, as he always said I should.

To-day it seems to me as if breakfast would _never_ end.