“You are very kind not to insinuate one word about dyspepsia,” answered Elsie demurely. “But I am really enthusiastic over my promised lessons in that grand art, as madam so grandiloquently calls it. You know some people are born great, and I really feel that I am destined to achieve my highest expression in an apostleship to the pots and pans of the kitchen. Like the starveling poet of the story-books, I shall doubtless astonish the world when the flame of my soul has burst into a dish fit to set before a king.”
“You are somewhat mixed as to metaphor,” exclaimed Margaret with a laugh.
“Well, I hope to mix more than metaphors by-and-by. But tell me, Dr. Ely, are you conscious of either an aching void or an aching fulness, whichever dyspepsia happens to be, since you sat under my dispensation?”
“I haven’t had such an appetite in years. I don’t in the least question your genius for cookery, and when you have learned to make something out of nothing with a ravishing French name and taste, you can count on achieving a world-wide fame.”
“Fame? a bauble! I look only to the expression of my art,” and Elsie rolled up her eyes and shrugged her shapely shoulders with an abandon of French mannerism that was as startling as it was amusing. Something in Margaret’s apprehensive glance caught the doctor’s quick eye. What wonderful fire and keenness lay in the little girl’s mobile face. Ah, well, Margaret was right; there was work for her here. With an abruptness that seemed almost harsh he spoke:
“He ‘jests at scars that never felt a wound.’ Art, Miss Elsie, in its entirety is deep, and high, and long, and men have sought it, and with palsied finger on the pulse of time have died unanswered.”
The laughing eyes of Elsie grew suddenly grave. “Dear me, one can’t be enthusiastic nowadays without finding a wet blanket thrown over her at the first step. Nevertheless I don’t intend to wear cap and spectacles until long after my humble divinity has crowned me mistress. My ambition is such a simple one—just to tickle the palates of my little world. Now, doctor, don’t discourage me.”
“Not for the world. Epicurus, if he were here, would doubtless pronounce a benediction on your ambition, and I am not sure that your purpose does not already deserve a laurel leaf, for it has been more than once reiterated that the crying need of the day is good cookery.”
“Thanks. I am glad that my mission has the support of the public mind, or palate. Either will do, I suppose. But how is it with you, Meg? I haven’t heard you declare as yet for any reform.”
“I am not so sure of my mission as you are of yours, nor so confident of being born to greatness.”