The "Alsatian chef," according to his plaintive call in the newspaper, announced that he was "first-class in every respect," but I couldn't bear the idea of a man hanging around all day in our cramped and modern apartment. It would probably be most embarrassing.
"You know, dear," I said, "you were very fond of asking the others to do odd jobs, and you couldn't possibly request an Alsatian chef to wash out a few handkerchiefs."
"I hope I understand the etiquette of the arrangement as well as you do," she retorted, quite vexed. "I am perfectly well aware that a chef wouldn't do anything of the sort. I believe, Archie Fairfax, that I am quite able to cope with these matters."
We learned, after incessant study of the advertising columns, that the expensive cooks emphasized "desserts, soups, jellies" in their list of attractions, and that the others never mentioned them. Jellies seemed to be the great distinguishing mark—the boundary line, as it were—between the expensive and the non-expensive. This was invariable. No sooner did a cook say "jelly" than she demanded treble wages. It seemed as though, to be luxurious, one must dote on jelly.
"And yet," said Letitia ruefully, "I really don't care very much about it. I'd much sooner engage a woman who understood eggs à la reine. Jelly seems to me so insipid. I don't suppose that we should want it once in a blue moon. All these women harp so on jellies, don't they, Archie? There must be some reason for it. I was never brought up to consider jellies as a great accomplishment."
"I suppose they really mean 'jellies' to cover all sorts of sweets," I suggested. "You see, dear, pie sounds rather vulgar. In this city, nobody thinks anything of pie. Undoubtedly, however, the woman who announces her accomplishment in jellies intends to imply pastries of all kinds."
"It may be so, of course. But as we are not quite sure, that question must be asked. It would be dreadful if we engaged a cook, at prohibitive wages, and then found that we had to live on nasty, wobbly jelly. Besides, it sounds so invalid-y to me. I'm so accustomed to taking jelly to anybody who has a cold, or who happens to be out of sorts, that I really dislike it. Why, only yesterday, Archie, I sent some jelly to Mrs. Archer, who has a stiff neck."
"Here's one," I said, bringing my index finger to a sudden standstill in its chute down the advertising columns; "'elegant pastries; table decorations a specialty; French dishes, jellies.' You see, she ends at jellies, but does not begin with them. She has been 'with the finest families in the Faubourg St. Germain, Paris.' She is 'reliable'—and odiously expensive."
"That doesn't matter, we have decided," chirped Letitia. "We may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I rather fancy that advertisement, dear. Let me see: 'Address, Madame Hyacinthe de Lyrolle."
"We could call her Cynthie," I ventured in a light mood.