She had said, have it hot.

I had told the pastrycook to deliver it cold.

Therefore Mrs Nash, just at the critical moment, deserted me! With a feeling of desperation I laid my own tablecloth--not a very good one--and arranged as best I could the plates and dishes.

Time was getting short, and it was no use wasting time on my crabby landlady.
Yet what could I do without her?
Who was to lend me a kettle, or a saucepan for the eggs, or a toasting-fork, or, for the matter of that, any of the material of war?
It was clear I must at all hazards regain Mrs Nash, and the next half-hour was spent in frantic appeals to every emotion she possessed, to the drawing of abject pictures of my own helplessness, to profuse apologies, and compliments and coaxings.

I never worked so hard in my life as I did that half-hour.
Happily it was not all in vain.