“Indeed, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “I'm deplorably ignorant about everything that concerns the household. Helen affects to be very deep in these matters; but I suspect it is only a superficial knowledge, got up to amuse the Knight.”
“I beg, Mamma, you will not infer any such reproach on my skill in menage. Papa called my omelette à la curé perfect.”
“I should like to hear Mr. Hickman's judgment on it,” said Lady Eleanor, with a sly smile.
“If it's a plain joint, my Lady, boiled or roasted, without spices or devilment in it, but just the way Providence intended—”
“May I ask, sir, how you suppose Providence intended to recommend any particular kind of cookery?” said Helen, seriously.
“Whatever is most natural, most simple, the easiest to do,” stammered out Hickman, not over pleased at being asked for an explanation.
“Then the Cossack ranks first in the art,” exclaimed Forester; “for nothing can be more simple or easier than to take a slice of a live ox and hang it up in the sun for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Them's barbarians,” said Hickman, with an emphasis that made the listeners find it no easy task to keep down a laugh.
“Luncheon, my Lady,” said old Tate Sullivan, as with a reverential bow he opened the folding-doors into a small breakfast parlor, where an exquisitely served table was laid out.
“Practice before precept, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor; “will you join us at luncheon, where I hope you may find something to your liking?”