Mrs. Marston's drowsiness forsook her. Hazel became conscious for tension.
'Mother!'—Edward's voice shook with suppressed laughter, although he was indignant with Hazel's father for such a mistaken upbringing—'mother, would you give Hazel the receipt for this splendid cake?'
'And welcome, my dear.' The old lady was safely launched on her favourite topic. 'And if you'd like a seed-cake as well, you shall have it. Have you put down any butter yet?'
Hazel never put down or preserved or made anything. Her most ambitious cooking was a rasher and a saucepan of potatoes.
'I dunna know what you mean,' she said awkwardly.
Edward was disappointed. He had thought her such a paragon. 'Well, well, cooking was, after all, a secondary thing. Let it go.'
'You mean to say you don't know what putting down butter is, my poor child? But perhaps you go in for higher branches? Lemon-curd, now, and bottled fruit. I'm sure you can do those?'
Hazel felt blank. She thought it best to have things clear.
'I canna do naught,' she said defiantly.
'Now, mother'—Edward came to the rescue again—'see how right you are
in saying that a girl's education is not what it used to be! See how
Hazel's has been neglected! Think what a lot you could teach her!
Suppose you were to begin quite soon?'