But the inventive faculty was not lacking in pretty Polly’s brain. She dived down the kitchen stairs, where a trusty maidservant, who had been some time in the household and had “understudied” for the various cooks on many an occasion, hailed her coming with joy, and set to work to plan and devise.
Somehow, since the establishment had been so reduced, and her mother had been so weak and troubled, the weight of everything had fallen on Polly’s shoulders. In particular, she had monopolized the commissariat department, and Winifred had ceded this and other things with alacrity.
“You are so clever at cooking, Polly,” she had said, with cunning prettiness. “Mother will always eat what you make for her.”
And guileless Polly swallowed the compliment, and doubled her devotion to the development of her culinary art, not fathoming the subtlety of Winifred’s appreciation all at once.
To-night she seated herself on the kitchen table—her favorite place while below—and gazed meditatively at the joint of cold roast beef. It was a very fine piece of beef, and had an appetizing air.
“Admirable as one dish, but it has a desolating effect if not supported with others,” she told herself, and then her face lit up.
She would make an omelet, and Martha should concoct a delicious salad, and a jelly from the nearest pastry cook’s should be followed by maccaroni au gratin. After this there was the dessert, and happily they had plenty of fruit in the house.
But the trick of cooking the omelet and appearing neat and trim at the dinner table taxed Polly too much.
She had already tried to make her head “presentable,” as she called it, but she had not had time to change her serge morning gown in which she had worked all the day.
“Well,” she observed, as she glanced herself up and down, “I am sorry if I shall offend Hubert’s fastidious taste, but he cannot be fed and charmed at one and the same time.”