“I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss,” wailed Eliza. “That's why the stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to stiffen 'em up?”
In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. “No, no,” she said. “We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them upstairs.”
“That's grand,” said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. “'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a pleasure to admire.”
“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “you must not shout up the dumb waiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out 'This plate's for the parson!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup.”
“If you please, Miss,” said Eliza. “That was because it was the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I thought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to you before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits or sworn statements.”
“You dish out the eggs, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “and I'll send them up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is it ready?”
“All doing finely, Miss,” answered Eliza, but as she opened the oven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage pudding, blackened and burnt to carbon.
“A great success,” said the bogus cook, but holding it on the other side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. “Here, I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold.” She hurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter before Kathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft.
“That smelt a little burnt, cook,” said Kathleen.
“Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss.”