When the Benson girls accused Betty of being quiet and absent-minded she laughed at them and asked if she generally monopolized the entire conversation. But on the way home she confided to Will that she hadn’t heard a word Sallie Benson had said about the plans for her coming-out cotillion. For almost the first time in her life, except the night after her famous runaway in senior year, Betty did not fall asleep the minute her head touched the pillow. She had promised father to help and she meant to, as much as ever she could. The hard question was how to keep her word.
Next morning she put her plans into action. After breakfast she hunted up Mrs. Wales, who was in the sewing-room with a huge pile of mending on the table beside her. Betty heroically helped herself to one of Will’s stockings, and led up to her errand.
“When does the cook leave, mother?”
“This evening, I believe. She’s packing now. I haven’t dared ask her what she means to do about the breakfast dishes.” Mother laughed happily. “We had such a nice talk last night, your father and I. I feel as if I were back in the days when we were first married, and had to count all the pennies we spent. After all, being poor isn’t so bad as long as we have each other.”
Betty nodded sagely. She didn’t want mother to find out that any one else had been confided in first. “I knew you’d feel so—I mean I think it’s a lot nicer to know the worst. But are you going to get another cook?”
Mrs. Wales nodded. “I told your father that we could get on beautifully with a general maid, but he insists upon two. He thinks we must keep up appearances as far as possible, as a sort of business asset.”
“But a cook doesn’t appear,” Betty suggested. “She’s behind the scenes.”
“Exactly, and that gives the second maid a chance to be in front of them. A good many business acquaintances of your father’s come through the city, and he wants to be able to bring them up to dinner without worrying about its being properly served.”
“It would have to be properly cooked too, wouldn’t it?” Betty reflected solemnly. “Well, anyhow, there’s no harm in telling you what I want. I want to do the cooking. I hate sweeping and dusting and mending, and the things I mend are frights. But I love to mess in the kitchen, and I’ve always wanted a chance to do it without a fussy old cook to glare at me and make remarks about its being her kitchen, and a lot too full of people. I don’t know how to make very many things, except salads and chafing-dish ‘eats,’ but I’m wild to learn. Please let me, mother. How much does a cook cost?”
“Eight dollars a week, unless she’s a particularly good cook and gets ten,” laughed Mrs. Wales. “But you’re absurd, Betty. You don’t realize how much work it is to cook for a big family like ours. Besides, how would you manage when we had guests? It would be very awkward.”