Lord Griffinhoofe examined the paper very carefully, and cleared his throat again.
‘H’m! It’s very awkward. My wife’s away. I hardly know what to do. You’re a cook, you say?’
‘Mrs. Waggs, my lord. Good plain or fancy with the best of character’s, though short, bein’ a temp’ry.’
‘Can you ... can you dust things, Mrs. Waggs?’
‘Dust? Me dust? No thank you, my lord, not if I know it. Thank ’Eaven, I ’aven’t come down to a duster quite as yet. O no, thank you! Mrs. Waggs, plain or fancy, on the usual terms, but no dustin’, thank you! I’m not an ’ousemaid.’
‘It’s very awkward. So you want to be cook. Can you make pastry?’
‘Anythink in reason, my lord. One doesn’t ask too much of a pore woman with two children and an ’usband in trouble. Pastry is not my fort, nor ’ave I been accustomed to families where pastry was eaten on a large scale.’
‘Well, well. It’s very awkward. The fact is that I have a cook already.’
‘And well you may, my lord, you that might ’ave dozens for the askin’.’ Mrs. Waggs burst into tears. ‘But it’s ’ard on a pore woman that’s trudged miles an’ miles without a drop o’ drink to look for a job, to be told the place is bespoke.’
‘There, there, don’t cry, Mrs. Waggs. I can’t turn my cook out to make a place for you, can I?’