"It's a cook!" she cried in a tempestuous whisper. "It's a cook! She wants to speak to Daphne. It's a trunk call. She's rung up from Torquay."
"Torquay!" I cried aghast. "Good Heavens!"
"What did I say?" said Berry. My sister rose in some trepidation. "Two hundred miles is nothing. Have another hunk of toast. It was only made on Sunday, so I can recommend it."
Daphne hastened from the room, with Jill twittering at her heels, and in some dudgeon I cut myself a slice of bread.
Berry turned his attention to the Sealyham.
"Nobby, my lad, come here."
Signifying his delight at this restoration to favour by an unusually elaborate rotatory movement of his tail, the terrier emerged from his cover and humbled himself at his patron's feet. The latter picked him up and set him upon his knee.
"My lad," he said, "this is going to be a momentous day. Cooks, meet to be bitten, are due to arrive in myriads. Be ruthless. Spare neither the matron nor the maid. What did Mr. Henry say in 1415?—
This day is call'd the feast of Sealyham:
She that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will sit with caution when this day is named.
And shudder at the name of Sealyham.
She that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the razzle feast her neighbours,
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Sealyham':
Then will she strip her hose and show her scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Nobby's day.'
Old cooks forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But she'll remember with a flood of talk
What feats you did that day."
Nobby licked his face enthusiastically.