But the flexible tip was gone. I understood Emily's distraught
condition. You can replace a diamond tiara; money won't buy a
twenty-year-old cake-knife.
"Try and bear it, dear," I said.
Emily pointed to the table weighed down with Madeiras and rocks and
almonds and sultanas and gingers. "It's inside one of them," she said.
For the moment I failed to grasp her meaning. She explained. "I've
made six dozen. The knife was all right when I started; a little bent,
nothing more. It was when I was mixing the last that I noticed the tip
was missing."
It was a difficult position. There was no time to submit the cakes to
the X-rays; the advance party was streaming through the gate.
"Dear fellows! I wonder which one it will be," said Emily, and clung
round my neck.
I put her on one side. "I'll manage it; leave it to me," I said, and
went forward and welcomed our guests. My mind was working clearly
and rapidly, as it always does in a crisis. When I had got them
seated round the tea-table, "My dear friends," I said, "this isn't
a Christmas party, but my wife couldn't help indulging in a little
Christmas fun.
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