“When are we going to have an experienced cook, you mean, monsieur,” Betty corrected him gaily. In the pantry she had decided that she should probably be cross herself in Will’s place, and had therefore resolved to take all his faultfinding in good part. “Because at present you’ve got me, such as I am. Suppose you give me a list of all your favorite dishes, Will, and I’ll make them, if they aren’t too hard. And just to relieve your mind I’ll confide to you that mother is hunting cooks this very morning.”
That afternoon Betty got a note from Roberta Lewis.
“I’m considering working for an M. A. at Bryn Mawr,” she wrote. “Father is away all day, and I don’t know enough people here in Philadelphia to keep me from getting lonely. Of course in some ways I should lots prefer going to Harding, but father wouldn’t consent to that. He wants me here whenever he is at home. We’re getting to be regular chums. We go to the theatre together, and he always takes me for supper afterward, because he’s heard that debutantes prefer theatre-suppers to almost anything. He wanted to have Aunt Nell come down from New York to help him give a big party for me; but I made him see how absurd it would be for a staid old lawyer like him and a quiet, stay-at-home, ’fraid-of-a-man like me, to bother about big fussy parties. So we just have nice little dinners for father’s old friends, and next summer he is going to teach me to ride horseback—I shudder whenever I think of it!—and to play golf, so that we can enjoy more things together. Write me what you think about the M. A.
“Roberta.”
Betty scribbled her answer at once.
“I’m doing an M. A. myself, Roberta dearest. It surprises you to hear that, doesn’t it? Well, in my case M. A. stands for Mother’s Assistant, and so far it’s the hardest course I ever took. But if mother ever finds a good cook—I’m the cook at present, and I should love it if everything didn’t go wrong—why, perhaps it will be easier. The other topics in my M. A. are mending and dusting and housekeeping odds and ends.
“If I am ever married and have any children, I shall bring them up to eat whatever there is on the table. Will hates eggs, and loves apple-pie. Dorothy hates pie and adores ice-cream. Father never eats ice-cream and likes his steak rare. Mother wants her steak actually burned, and nothing but crackers and cheese and coffee for desert; and father loves coffee, but mustn’t drink it. I am just as fussy as any of them, but I never shall be again. I must stop and get dinner. Pity the poor cook of this hard-to-suit family!
“I think it would be grand to be able to write M. A. after your name, but if you want to really and truly learn something take my kind.
“Yours, with her sleeves rolled up,
“Betty.”