The Frenchman drew himself up tragically. "I can no longer serve Madame: it is not convenable to my dignity."
"What's hurtin' your dignity?"
"It is not for me to cook for a lot of babies, and—and—a nigger baby."
Drusilla looked at him silently for a moment.
"Um-um—I see," she said. "You don't think you ought to cook for babies. There ain't much cookin'; they're mostly milk fed now."
"There is the porridge in the morning, and the soft-boiled eggs, and—and—"
"Oh, you object to cookin' eggs and porridge. It ain't hard."
"It is not the deefeeculty; it is the disgrace. I am a great artist—a chef—it hurts the soul of the artist to—"
"I don't want an artist in the kitchen. I want a cook. Artists paint picters; they don't boil potatoes. What do you mean?"
"You do not understand, Madame. I am an artist; I have cooked in the best houses."