“Him?” said Sam, with a grin of contempt; “why, he’s worse than master.”
“He couldn’t be, Sam.”
“Couldn’t? But he is. Master does talk about live people as he does good to. Mr Landon don’t. He began over the curry.”
“Made with best curry paste too, and with scraped cocoanut, a squeeze of lemon, a toemarter, and some slices of apple in, just as old Colonel Cartelow taught me hisself. Talk about throwing pearls! And pray what did Mr Landon talk about?”
“Mummies.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated cook. “I saw some of ’em once, at the British Museum; but never no more! The idea of bringing a mummy on to a dinner-table!”
“Ah,” said Sam, “it’s a good job, old lady, that you don’t hear all that I do.”
“So I suppose,” said cook, with a snort. “And he calls hisself a professor!”
“No, no, he don’t, old lady. It’s other people calls him a professor, and I suppose he is a very clever man.”
“I don’t hold with such clever people. I like folks as are clever enough to understand good cooking. Professor, indeed! I should like to professor him!”