“Anyhow, the country dust won’t spoil these clothes. I’m so glad it’s clear. How charming the woods will look.”
Just enough to deceive. Edna expanded upon her cleverness in never saying too much, because saying too much always started people, especially servants, to thinking. But she abruptly checked her flow of self-praise as we seated ourselves in the ferry and she looked about. There, not a dozen seats away, loomed our cook! Yes, no mistake, it was our Mary, “gotten up regardless” for a Sunday outing.
“Do you see Mary?” said my wife.
“She’s the most conspicuous female in sight,” said I. “She’s a credit to us.”
“I must have been mad,” groaned Edna, “to give her a holiday! Always the way. I never do a generous, kind-hearted thing that I don’t have to pay for it.”
“I don’t follow you,” said I.
“She hates us,” explained Edna. “Cooks—Irish cooks—invariably hate the families they draw wages from. She’s dogging us.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “She probably hasn’t even seen us.”
But Edna was not listening; she was contriving. “We must let her leave the boat ahead of us. Pretend not to see her.”
I obeyed orders. In the Jersey City train shed we, lagging behind, saw her take a train bound for a different destination from ours. Much relieved, Edna led the way to the Passaic train. Hardly were we seated when in at the door of the coach hurried our Mary, excited and blown. She came beaming down the aisle. Edna saluted her graciously and calmly.