Mr. Thornton smiled.
"I don't see where you require my services—"
"Oh, yes, I do. You know the expenses of this house are kept up by the estate, and you pay all the servants. Now I don't like to send a cook away unless I tell you. But this cook's goin' and he's goin' sudden."
"Isn't he a good cook?"
"Yes, I suppose he is; but, between you and me and the gatepost, I won't be sorry to see the last of him. I guess he's a fine cook for fancy cookin', but I been used to plain things all my life and I'm tired of things with French names. When I have a stew I like to have a stew, and I'd like real American vittles once in a while. Some good pork and beans and cabbage that ain't all covered up with flummadiddles so that I don't know I'm eatin' cabbage; an' I like vegetables that ain't all cut up in fancy picters, and green corn on a cob without a silver stick in the end of it. I liked his things real well at first; but he can't make pie and his cakes is too fancy—and, well—he got sassy and said he wouldn't cook for a lot of babies, and he's goin'. You just be sure of that, Mr. Thornton; he's goin'."
Mr. Thornton said dryly: "I presume it is a little lowering to the dignity of a French chef to cook for a lot of waifs—"
"Now you be careful, Mr. Thornton, or you'll go trottin' along with the cook. I'm a little bit techy about them babies—"
The man flushed and rose to go.
"I did not mean to offend you, Miss Doane. We are at your service. What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to get me a woman cook—by the way, what did you pay that cook?"