‘As for my dress, Ma,’ returned Bella, merrily searching in a dresser-drawer, ‘I mean to apron it and towel it all over the front; and as to permission, I mean to do without.’
‘You cook?’ said Mrs Wilfer. ‘You, who never cooked when you were at home?’
‘Yes, Ma,’ returned Bella; ‘that is precisely the state of the case.’
She girded herself with a white apron, and busily with knots and pins contrived a bib to it, coming close and tight under her chin, as if it had caught her round the neck to kiss her. Over this bib her dimples looked delightful, and under it her pretty figure not less so. ‘Now, Ma,’ said Bella, pushing back her hair from her temples with both hands, ‘what’s first?’
‘First,’ returned Mrs Wilfer solemnly, ‘if you persist in what I cannot but regard as conduct utterly incompatible with the equipage in which you arrived—’
(‘Which I do, Ma.’)
‘First, then, you put the fowls down to the fire.’
‘To—be—sure!’ cried Bella; ‘and flour them, and twirl them round, and there they go!’ sending them spinning at a great rate. ‘What’s next, Ma?’
‘Next,’ said Mrs Wilfer with a wave of her gloves, expressive of abdication under protest from the culinary throne, ‘I would recommend examination of the bacon in the saucepan on the fire, and also of the potatoes by the application of a fork. Preparation of the greens will further become necessary if you persist in this unseemly demeanour.’
‘As of course I do, Ma.’