“A good cook is a born artist, who can put the spirit of taste into his work,” she declared. “You little thought last night when you partook of that fair salmon that you were not partaker in the murderer’s spoil.”
“Indeed, I remarked upon the delicacy of flavour.”
“I know.”
Thus was every dish prepared with a quickness and perfection very marvellous, so that as I watched I began to feel an appetite for dinner, though breakfast was just over.
“There is not much to be done in this line to-day,” she observed, “for this afternoon we go to the city. According to our time, I generally spend one hour a day upon it, unless I am trying some new recipe or making an experiment.”
And it seemed that in a marvellously short time there had appeared some of the daintiest dishes imaginable, savoury and sweet.
Sunbeam, in the meantime, had been busy rearranging the table which had passed here from yesterday’s dining-room, so she told me. She and I together went to gather flowers and fruit, whilst our mother went to make the beds. I remembered that Vestné had performed these offices every morning and alone. I found myself wondering vaguely had she loved her work as much as these, and then I recollected that she must have done, because often from the open windows I had heard her singing gaily, though the songs had brought no happiness to me.
“Which is your favourite flower?” asked Sunbeam.
“Lily of the valley.”
“Then we’ll gather that.”