“I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments,” said Mrs. Kent. “You may take it away now, Mary.”
“As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996,” observed Blair. “I presume it takes its name from her?”
“Exactly—Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historical knowledge does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were such keen students of the past.”
Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for he noticed that Falstaff was getting in some private conversation with Kathleen. He attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well launched on his hobby.
“Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughter of Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, the son of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. To stem the invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled—”
“Ethel fled, that's just the trouble,” interposed Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen, my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in the kitchen. I'm afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter must excuse this irregularity. Our substitute cook is a very strange person.”
Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though the sparkle had fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight from the silver. Across the cloth he had watched her—girlish, debonair, and with a secret laughter lurking in her eyes. And yet he had not had a chance to exchange half a dozen sentences with her.
The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and began to place the dishes for the next course.
“Kathleen begs to be excused,” said Mrs. Kent. “She thinks she had better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza.”
“Oh, I say,” cried the curate. “That's too bad. Do you think I could help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himself has praised my—er—my—”