“Yes, ma'am.”
“Well, you can tell me, I will tell Miss Kathleen.”
“Cook said I was to give it to her personally,” said the persistent Eliza.
“How very extraordinary,” said Mrs. Kent. “What did you say was the matter with Ethel—is it anything contagious?”
“Oh, no, ma'am, I think it's just a touch of—of nervous debility, ma'am—too many white corpuscles, ma'am.”
“Well, I don't think Miss Kathleen can come down now, Eliza; we have just had a very strange telegram which has rather upset us.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The new cook sat down to peel potatoes and study the mechanics of Kitchencraft. She found much to baffle her in the array of pots and pans, and in the workings of the range. From a cupboard she took out mince-meat choppers, potato mashers, cream whippers, egg-beaters, and other utensils, gazing at them in total ignorance of their functions. Mrs. Kent had indicated jugged hare and mashed potatoes for lunch, and after some scrutiny of the problem Eliza found a hammer in the cabinet with which she began to belabour the vegetables. Mary, who might have suggested boiling the potatoes first, was then upstairs.
By and by Kathleen heard the thumping, and came into the kitchen to investigate.
“Good morning, Eliza.”