She had lighted the gas under the kettle and taken the bread and butter from the cupboard, when he came into the kitchen, wearing an air of the most earnest purpose, and said impressively:
"Genius, Pollyooly—genius is the art of taking infinite pains."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly politely.
"That is why you are unsurpassed in the art of grilling bacon; you take infinite pains with it," he went on with the same earnestness.
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly with more understanding.
"And now I am going to instruct you in the art of making tea," he said proudly. "I only learned yesterday that it was an art. Till then I believed that you merely poured boiling water on tea, and there you were. I have learned that it is not so. Also I have learned that that vegetable which comes from India and Ceylon, and is called tea by those who sell it, is not really tea at all. Tea only comes from China; and I have bought some."
"Yes, sir," said Pollyooly with the air of one receiving information gratefully.
"And now I will teach you the art of making it exactly as it was taught to me," he said with a very schoolmasterly air.
Thereupon, under his instructions, Pollyooly warmed the tea-pot and stood by the tea-caddy ready to put in two teaspoonfuls of tea (one for him, one for the pot) the moment the kettle boiled. The moment it did boil, following his instructions, she put the tea into the pot, and then, tilting the kettle without taking it from the stove, she poured the still boiling water on to it. Then she inverted the little glass egg-boiler and stood ready to bring the infusing tea into his sitting-room as soon as the upper half of it was nearly empty of sand.
Then he said in raised and sonorous tones of profound satisfaction: