And she purchased a cookery book and commenced operations, and held to her resolve with Spartan firmness, encouraged by private but enthusiastic bursts of commendation from Griffith, who, finding her out, read the tender meaning of the fanciful seeming whim, and was so touched thereby that the mere sight of her in her nonsensical little affectation of working paraphernalia raised him to a seventh heaven of bliss.
When she made her entrance into the kitchen on this occasion, and began to bustle about in search for her apron, Belinda, who was on her knees polishing the grate, amidst a formidable display of rags and brushes, paused to take breath and look at her admiringly.
“Are yer goin' to make yer pies 'n things, Miss Dolly?” she asked. “Which, if ye are, yer apern 's in the left 'and dror.”
“So it is,” said Dolly. “Thank you. Now where is the cookery book?”
“Left 'and dror agin,” announced Belinda, with a faint grin. “I allus puts it there.”
Whereupon Dolly, making industrious search for it, found it, and applied herself to a deep study of it, resting her white elbows on the dresser, and looking as if she had been suddenly called upon to master its contents or be led to the stake. She could not help being intense and in earnest even over this every-day problem of pies and puddings.
“Fricassee?” she murmured. “Fricassee was a failure, so was mock-turtle soup; it looked discouraging, and the fat would swim about in a way that attracted attention. Croquettes were not so bad, though they were a little stringy; but beef à la mode was positively unpleasant. Jugged hare did very well, but oyster pâtés were dubious. Veal pie Griffith liked.”
“There's somebody a-ringin' at the door-bell,” said Belinda, breaking in upon her. “He's rung twict, which I can go, mum, if I ain't got no smuts.”
Dolly looked up from her book.
“Some one is going now, I think,” she said. “I hope it is n't a visitor,” listening attentively.