"The room is all right, but I don't care for the exposure," said the Princess of Porkchops.
"Well, what's wrong?" insisted our patient auntie.
"Sure," said the Baroness of Bread-pudding, "the room is so exposed, Mem, that every breeze from the North Pole just nachully hikes in there and keeps me settin' up in bed all night shiverin' like I was shakin' dice for the drinks. When I want that kind of exercise I'll hire out as chambermaid in a cold-storage. I'm a cook, Mem, it's true, but I'm no relation to Doctor Cook, and I ain't eager to sleep in a room where even a Polar bear would be growlin' for a fur coat."
"Very well, Lizzie," said Aunt Martha, soothingly; "I'll have storm windows put on at once and extra quilts sent to the room, and a gas stove if you wish."
"All right, Mem," said the Countess of Cornbeef, removing the lid, "I'll stay; but keep that husband of yours with the woozy lingo out of the kitchen, because I'm a nervous woman—I am that!" and then the Duchess of Devilledkidneys got a strangle-hold on her green umbrella and ducked for the grub foundry.
Aunt Martha sighed and went in the house.
"Hep," I said; "this scene with Her Highness of Clamchowder ought to be an awful warning to you. No man should get married these days unless he's sure his wife can juggle the frying pan and take a fall out of an egg-beater. They've had eight cooks in eight days, and every time a new face comes in the kitchen the coal-scuttle screams with fright.
"You can see where they've worn a new trail across the lawn on the retreat to the depot.
"It's an awful thing, Hep! Our palates are weak from sampling different styles of mashed potatoes.
"We had one last week who answered roll-call when you yelled Phyllis.