“All but the dishes, then,” yielded Polly.
“I always wash my own dishes,” he returned, with eyes that twinkled.
“You talk as if you were used to kitchen work,” laughed Polly.
“I am.”
The girl looked incredulous, but said nothing. At once she began opening doors of pantry and storeroom and cupboards.
“Everything appears to be very convenient,” he approved, as he examined the large ice-chest in the corner of the storeroom.
“We think so,” was the response. “Mrs. Gresham spared no money in remodeling this part of the house.”
The talk passed to the donator’s beneficence, until, finally, they came back to the kitchen, where the clock told them that tea-time was not far away.
The new cook at once began preparations for the meal, and in the short time that Polly remained she had to admit to herself that here was no green hand, and she left the room with a relief that she had not known since Benedicta’s departure.
That first tea will always remain in the memory of those that sat at the table with Sardis Merrifield. Bouillon, deliciously seasoned; small rolls—hot, light, tender, and crusted—as rolls should be; salad served on individual dishes, lettuce leaves beneath and sprays of parsley atop; a layer cake with filling of peaches and whipped cream;—that was all, but no one who shared the meal felt any lack.