“If your daughter be your housekeeper, Dr. Dill,” said she, in a whisper, “I must give her my very heartiest approbation. These are matters I can speak of with authority, and I pronounce her worthy of high commendation.”
“What admirable salmon cutlets!” cried the Colonel. “Why, doctor, these tell of a French cook.”
“There she is beside you, the French cook!” said the Major, with a malicious twinkle.
“Yes,” said Polly, smiling, though with a slight flush on her face, “if Major M'Cormick will be indiscreet enough to tell tales, let us hope they will never be more damaging in their import.”
“And do you say—do you mean to tell me that this curry is your handiwork? Why, this is high art.”
“Oh, she 's artful enough, if it 's that ye 're wanting,” muttered the Major.
Miss Barrington, having apparently satisfied the curiosity she felt about the details of the doctor's housekeeping, now took her leave, not, however, without Dr. Dill offering his arm on one side, while Polly, with polite observance, walked on the other.
“Look at that now,” whispered the Major. “They 're as much afraid of that old woman as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And all because she was once a fine lady living at Barrington Hall.”
“Here's their health for it,” said the Colonel, filling his glass,—“and in a bumper too! By the way,” added he, looking around, “does not Mrs. Dill lunch with us?”
“Oh, she seldom comes to her meals! She's a little touched here.” And he laid his finger on the centre of his forehead. “And, indeed, no wonder if she is.” The benevolent Major was about to give some details of secret family history, when the doctor and his daughter returned to the room.