Two days afterward she came upon the new cook in the kitchen scanning a small volume.
“I am hunting for a pudding recipe,” he told her.
“It is an imposition for us to let you do all this work,” she said apologetically.
“No, indeed,” he replied; “it is a real pleasure. Besides, I was falling out of practice. I ought to remember how to make this pudding without consulting a recipe.”
Polly looked at him curiously. “You talk—and cook—as if you were a professional,” she laughed.
“I am. This is the first summer for five years that I have not been concocting dishes for the table. I cooked my way through college, first at the commons, then at a New York restaurant. Finally a Yale boy rescued me, and for three summers I was chef at his father’s home up the Hudson.”
“Isn’t that fine!” exclaimed Polly, her eyes shining.
“Some people don’t see it that way,” smiled the young man.
“Why not?” Polly returned in an astonished tone. “I think it is splendid to work one’s way through college; but I never should have thought of cooking.”
“It pays pretty well, and it was the money I was looking for,” he laughed.