“Every one’s very happy except Mrs. Atkins, and she is plunged in woe. Even Sarah seems interested. I haven’t dared to look at Miss de Lisle, but Allenby says she is cheerful.”
“Has Mrs. Atkins been unpleasant?”
“Well,” said Norah, and laughed, “you wouldn’t call her exactly a bright spot in the house. But she has seen to things, so that is all that counts.”
“I won’t have that woman worry you,” said Mr. Linton firmly.
“I won’t have you worried about anything,” said Norah. “Don’t think about Mrs. Atkins, or you won’t enjoy your tea. And here’s Allenby.”
“Tea!” said Mr. Linton, as the butler entered, bearing a little tray. “I thought I was too late for such a luxury—but I must say I’m glad of it.”
“I sent some upstairs, sir,” said Allenby, placing a little table near his master. “Just a little toast, sir, it being so late. And if you please, miss, Miss de Lisle would be glad if you could spare a moment in the kitchen.”
The cook-lady, redder than ever, was mixing a mysterious compound in a bowl. Katty, hugely important, darted hither and thither. A variety of savoury smells filled the air.
“I just wanted to tell you,” said Miss de Lisle confidentially, “that I’m making a special souffle of my own, and Allenby will put it in front of you. Promise me”—she leaned forward earnestly—“to use a thin spoon to help it, and slide it in edgeways as gently as—as if you were stroking a baby! It’s just a perfect thing—I wouldn’t sleep to-night if you used a heavy spoon and plunged it in as if it was a suet-pudding!”
“I won’t forget,” Norah promised her, resisting a wild desire to laugh.