There were two or three moments of silence after Elsie’s departure, and then Mrs. Mason’s guest threw down his paper with the question: “Where in the name of all the graces, Helen, did you find such a Hebe as that?”
There was a steely flash in Mrs. Mason’s eyes as she answered: “Have you been half the world over, Herbert Lynn, only to come home and rave over the beauty of my cook?”
“Cook? I thought Lizzette was responsible for that superb dinner last evening.”
“So she was in part; but this girl, Elsie Murchison, is a protégé of hers whom I have engaged for a short time until I can do better.”
“Well, if her cooking corresponds to her beauty she must be a treasure.”
“That is what James and William both declare her to be,” replied Mrs. Mason calmly.
“Oh, of course, just their style of girl,” and Mr. Lynn resumed the reading of his newspaper, as if the subject had no further interest for him.
“Singular,” he mused, while his eyes roamed over an editorial résumé of the Parnell inquiry, “what surprises nature does love to work, putting the face of an houri over a mind that doubtless shames a Nancy Sykes. Helen’s cook, indeed! but, by Jove! I never saw so lovely a face before.”
After this, despite the black looks of his sister, Herbert took especial delight in haunting the morning-room at the usual hour of her conference with her cook. He was seldom rewarded by hearing the Hebe speak, and then only in monosyllables; but he noticed she had “that excellent thing in woman,” a well-modulated voice, as well as a quiet and reserved manner.
“Herbert,” exclaimed Mrs. Mason with an angry flash in her gray eyes, after he had been present at the third or fourth of these conferences, “I’ll not have you watching that girl so, and I warn you that my house is not the place for any old-world gallantries.”