But Miss de Lisle was on his heels, breathing threatenings and slaughter.
“There must be some arrangement made as to my instructions,” she boomed. “Your housekeeper evidently does not understand my position. She has had the impertinence to address me as ‘Cook.’ Cook!” She paused for breath, glaring.
“But, good gracious, isn’t it your profession?” asked Mr. Linton.
Miss de Lisle fairly choked with wrath. Wally’s voice fell like oil on a stormy sea.
“If I could make a pie like that I’d expect to be called ‘Cook,’” said he. “It’s—it’s a regular poem of a pie!” Whereat Jim choked in his turn, and endeavoured, with signal lack of success, to turn his emotion into a sneeze.
Miss de Lisle’s lowering countenance cleared somewhat. She looked at Wally in a manner that was almost kindly.
“War-time cookery is a makeshift, not an art,” she said. “Before the war I could have shown you what cooking could be.”
“That pie wasn’t a makeshift,” persisted Wally. “It was a dream. I say, Miss de Lisle, can you make pikelets?”
“Yes, of course,” said the cook-lady. “Do you like them?”
“I’d go into a trap for a pikelet,” said Wally, warming to his task. “Oh, Norah, do ask Miss de Lisle if she’ll make some for tea!”