“No, no, you are not cross, and I beg your pardon.”
“And I wouldn’t have thought it of you, sir. The idee, indeed, of you wanting to come and meddle here in my kitchen!”
“But I don’t want to, I tell you, so don’t say any more about it.”
But before Vane could grasp the woman’s intention, she had snatched the basket from his hand and borne it back to the table, upon which she thumped it with so much vigour that several of the golden chalice-like fungi leaped out.
“Here, what are you going to do?” cried Vane.
“What you told me, sir,” said cook austerely, and with a great hardening of her face. “I don’t forget my dooties, sir, if other people do.”
“Oh, but never mind, cook,” cried Vane. “I’m sorry I asked you.”
“Pray don’t say any more about it, sir. The things shall be cooked and sent to table, and it’s very thankful you ought to be, I’m sure, that master’s a doctor and on the spot ready, for so sure as you eat that mess in the parlour, you’ll all be on a bed of sickness before night.”
“Now, Martha,” cried Vane; “that’s just what you said when I asked you to cook the parasol mushrooms.”
“Paragrandmother mushrooms, sir; you might just as well call them by their proper name, umberrella toadstools, and I don’t believe any one ate them.”