But Joy came forward to welcome her.
An hour later Miss Mason was eating a supper of cold chicken, salad, bread and butter, tinned peaches and cream. She was being waited on by a little flower-faced girl in a blue print dress and a quaint cap and apron. The little girl’s name was Sally.
She had been found through an advertisement, after Miss Mason had visited registry offices innumerable, and interviewed cooks fat, cooks scraggy, cooks superior, cooks untidy, cooks confident, and cooks deprecating, none of whom had pleased her. The owners of the registry offices had considered Miss Mason an impossible person.
Sally’s sole references had been that of her mother, the Sunday-school teacher, and her own fresh little face. Miss Mason had fallen in love with her on the spot.
She arrived with a parcel under her arm five minutes after Miss Mason had entered the studio. Her box was to come the next morning by the carrier.
Miss Mason finished her supper and Sally cleared the table. She then vanished into the minute kitchen, out of which was an equally minute bedroom.
Miss Mason got up from her chair and went slowly round the studio. She had spent three weeks of careful shopping. It was astonishing how quickly she had found herself going from place to place, aided by friendly policemen. Her purchases had been sent to a furniture agent who was responsible for their arrangement in the studio.
It was all exactly as she had imagined it would be. There were the brown walls with the few pictures, the blue drugget on the floor, and the old Persian rugs. There was the “Winged Victory” on its straight pedestal in one corner. There was the dresser against one wall, with the blue dinner service on its shelves. There was the bookcase filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. There was the Chesterfield sofa standing at right angles to the fire-place. There was the corner cupboard, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in which were a few bits of rare old china. There was the easel. There were a few new canvases against the wall. There was a box full of oil paints. There were charcoal sticks in another box—Miss Mason had found that chalk in bottles was not the correct thing nowadays. There was a whole ream of white Michelet paper. There was a sheaf of brushes in a green earthenware jar. There was a large mahogany palette hanging on a nail. It shone smooth and polished like a mirror.
When she had been the round of the studio she sat down in the big chair and looked at the empty Sèvres bowl.