Jill began to shake with laughter.
"I can't help it," said Daphne desperately. "I know it's awful, but what can we do?"
"There must be some cooks somewhere," said I. "The breed isn't extinct. And they can't all be irrevocably suited. I always thought the Cooks' Brigade was one of the most mobile arms of domestic service."
"I've done everything," said my sister, "except advertise. Katharine Festival put me off that. She says she spent seven pounds on advertisements and never got a single answer. But I've done everything else. I've asked everybody I know, my name's on the books of every registry office I've ever heard of, and I've written and sent stamped addressed envelopes to every cook whose name I've been given. Three out of about sixty have replied, saying they were already suited. One came here, practically said she'd come, and then wrote to say she was frightened of the electric cooker. And another wanted a hundred a year and a private bathroom. It's simply hopeless."
"If," said Berry, "we survive this meal, I'll write to Jonah and tell him to bring one back with him. If he can't raise one in Paris, he ought to be shot. And now let's have a sweep on the savoury. I'll bet it tastes of paraffin and looks like a pre-War divvot."
"Let's try advertising," said Jill. "Katharine mayn't have had a good one."
"I agree," said I. "I'll get one out to-night. A real snorter."
In silence the traces of the course which had provoked the outburst were removed, clean plates were set before us, and the footman advanced with a dish of nauseous-looking fritters.
Daphne instinctively recoiled.
"Hullo," said Berry. "Another gas attack?"