But Bart was learning the art of managing his father.
'The poor old nag wants a rest,' he said. 'We must take her up and give her a drink and some oats. And I'd come in to dinner, dad, if I were you. Hermie will be disappointed if you don't.'
So they went up to the little patchwork house together.
It was not to a very tempting repast the bell had summoned them. Hermie, no longer able to order macaroons and whitebait and tinned oysters to make delicacies with, had, childlike, lost interest in the culinary department of the house. And Miss Browne was no artist; to her a leg of mutton represented nothing but a leg of mutton, and fricassees and such tempting departures seemed but tales in the cookery book never to be put to practical use.
To-day there were chops—fried. Years back, when Lizzie came fresh from the State to Mrs. Cameron's tutelage, she had been instantly instructed in the fine art of grilling. But now that there was no one to insist upon these delicate distinctions, and the frying-pan was so much easier labour, Cameron was slowly forgetting the taste of grilled meat.
There were potatoes too; the family took it for granted that these were necessarily nasty things, either watery or burnt.
Bread and jam—no longer silver-pan conserve, but cheap raspberry, in which the chief element was tomato—finishing the pleasing repast.
Miss Browne sat at the head of the table, exhausted and dishevelled, for she had swept the room, had sewn on four buttons, and dressed Floss, and set the table.
Cameron, before removing to the selection, had dismissed her again, gently enough; he knew it would be impossible to continue to pay her ten shillings a week for being a nuisance to them.
And again she had wept and wrung her hands and entreated to remain. The tears streaming down her cheeks, she told him the time she had been in his family was the happiest in her life. She would not dream of taking money now, she said; but she implored him to let her work for her home. So here she was, still at the head of the table, faithfully apportioning the dish of chops and keeping the smallest and worst-cooked one quietly for herself, and pouring out tea, which all the family drank with each and every meal, so slowly and confusedly that her own was always cold before she touched it.