"I thought a Christmas dinner never varied, cook. You can have the usual thing, I suppose."
"In course, mum," says cook, undaunted. She is a fine, fat, healthy-looking woman, with a large eye, and a slightly wheezy intonation, as though she were constantly trying to swallow some of her own good things that had inadvertently stuck in her throat. It seems to me that I ought to love this comfortable creature, who is so obstinately bent on flattering me against my will. "But whatever folks may say, a plum pudding for a delicate lady like you is uncommon 'eavy on the 'art and mind when bed-hour comes. If you would just say anything that would please you—something light that I might try my hand on—an ice-pudding, now?"—this with as near an attempt at coaxing as respect will permit.
But the word "ice-pudding" calls up old memories: I remember my ancient weakness for that particular confection. My brows contract; a sharp pain fills my breast.
"No, no! anything but ice-pudding," I say, hastily: "I—hate it."
"Dear me, mum! now do you? Most of the quality loves it. Then what would you say? I'm a first-class hand in the pastry line—-"
"Make me—a meringue," I murmur, in despair, seeing I shall have to give in, or else go through a list from the cookery book, and fortunately remembering how I once heard a clever housekeeper say there were few sweets so difficult to bring to perfection. But the difficulty, if there is any, only enchants my goddess of the range.
"Very good, mum; you shall 'ave it," she says, rapturously; and retires with flying colors, having beaten me ignominiously.
A month—two months—go by, and still my self-imposed seclusion is unbroken.
Now and again I receive a letter from former friends, but these I discourage. From mother I hear regularly once a week, whether I answer her or not. Poor mother! She has begged and prayed for permission to visit me, to see how time is using me, whether I am well or ill; but all to no avail. I will not be dragged out of the gloomy solitude in which I have chosen to bury myself.
From Dora, on her return from Rome, comes such a kindly, tender letter as I had not believed it possible the chilly Dora could pen. It is wound up by a postscript from Sir George, as warm-hearted in tone as he is himself. It touches me, in a far-off, curious manner; but I shrink from the invitation to join them that it contains, and refuse it in such a way as must prevent a repetition of it.