"Client, then," replied the Colonel. "What I want is a cook. Not an ordinary cook, but a damned good cook. You know. A cook who sees that beef is underdone and mutton well done. A cook who sends any meat but the very best back to the butcher. A cook who doesn't stuff apple tarts with cloves and slices of lemon. A cook who keeps time. Belle—Belle is fine, she's splendid, but she doesn't understand."
Ben laughed. "I wonder how bad your cook is," she said. "You know, father, you're not the easiest creature to cater for. And—and does Belle know you're here?"
"Yes," said the Colonel, "I told her."
"All right," said Ben. "I'll do what I can. But, remember, you'll have to pay. Everything's dearer than it used to be. What does the present cook get?"
"I think it's fifty," said her father.
"Well, you'll have to go higher than that, for a good one. Very likely to eighty."
The Colonel groaned. "If I must, I must," he said. "Life isn't worth living as it is."
"I'll send one along," said Ben.
"You're a good girl," said the Colonel. "I'm proud of you."
"Wait just a moment, father," said Ben, as he rose to go. "You haven't given me the address of a milliner yet."