“Good morning,” said Mrs. Kent. “You are Eliza Thick?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You brought a note from Ethel?”
“Yes, ma'am;” and fumbling in an opulent bosom, Eliza drew forth a crumpled scrap of paper.
“I had a telegram from my niece in Oxford recommending you. How did she know of you?”
“I worked at Lady Marg'ret 'All, ma'am, where the young lady is studyin'.”
“Why did you leave your place there?”
“If you please, ma'am, my dishes was so tasty that it made the young ladies discontented when they got 'ome. Their parents complained that it gave 'em too 'igh ideas about wittles. The principal said I was pamperin' 'em too much, an' offered to release me.”
Mary, who was listening, gave a loud snort of laughter, which she tried to conceal by rattling some plates.
“Well, Eliza,” said Mrs. Kent, “that will do. You must get on with the work as best you can. Judging by the coffee this morning, I don't think your cooking will have the same effect on us that it did on the students at Lady Margaret Hall. We were expecting a guest for lunch but I will have to put him off until supper. I have written out the menu for the day. Mary will give you any help she can.”
“If you please, ma'am?” said Eliza.
“Yes?”
“Cook gave me a message for Miss Kathleen, ma'am, which she asked me to deliver in person.”
“A message for Miss Kathleen?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen.”
“Cook said I was to give it to her personally,” said the persistent Eliza.
“How very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Kent. “What did you say was the matter with Ethel—is it anything contagious?”
“Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of—of nervous debility, ma'am—too many white corpuscles, ma'am.”
“Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we have just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots and pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she took out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in total ignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of the problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she began to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggested boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs.
By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen to investigate.
“Good morning, Eliza.”
“Good morning, Miss,” said the delighted cook. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, Miss!”
“Thank you, Eliza. Did you have a message for me from Ethel?”
“Yes, Miss. Er—Ethel said she hoped you'd give me all the help you can, Miss, because—er, you see, Miss, cooking for a private family is very different from working in a college where there are so many, Miss.”
“I see. Well—what on earth are you doing to those potatoes, Eliza?”
“Mashing 'em, Miss.”
“What, with a hammer!”
“I washed the 'ammer, Miss.”
“Surely you didn't mash them that way at Maggie Hall, Eliza?”
“Yes, miss. The young ladies got so they couldn't abide them done any other way.”
Kathleen looked more closely, and examined the badly bruised tubers. “Good gracious,” she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter. “They haven't been cooked yet!”
Eliza was rather taken aback.
“Well, you see, Miss,” she said, “at the college we used nothing but fireless cookers, and I don't understand these old-fashioned stoves very well. I wanted to get you to explain it to me.”
“It's perfectly simple,” said Kathleen. “This is the oven, and when you want to bake anything—Phew!” she cried, opening the oven door, “what have you got in here?”
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