“That’s a dear,” said the cook-lady, disregarding the relations of employer and employed, in the heat of professional enthusiasm. “And you’ll help it as quickly as possible, won’t you? It will be put on the table after all the other sweets. Every second will be of importance!” She sighed. “A souffle never gets a fair chance. It ought, of course, to be put on a table beside the kitchen-range, and cut within two seconds of leaving the oven. With a hot spoon!” She sighed tragically.
“We’ll do our best for it,” Norah promised her. “I’m sure it will be lovely. Shall I come and tell you how it looked, afterwards?”
Miss de Lisle beamed.
“Now, that would be very kind of you,” she said. “It’s so seldom that any one realizes what these things mean to the cook. A souffle like this is an inspiration—like a sonata to a musician. But no one ever dreams of the cook; and the most you can expect from a butler is, ‘Oh, it cut very nice, ma’am, I’m sure. Very nice!’” She made a despairing gesture. “But some people would call Chopin ‘very nice’!”
“Miss de Lisle,” said Norah earnestly, “some day when we haven’t any guests and Dad goes to London, we’ll give every one else a holiday and you and I will have lunch here together. And we’ll have that souffle, and eat it beside the range!”
For a moment Miss de Lisle had no words.
“Well!” she said at length explosively. “And I was so horrible to you at first!” To Norah’s amazement and dismay a large tear trickled down one cheek, and her mouth quivered like a child’s. “Dear me, how foolish I am,” said the poor cook-lady, rubbing her face with her overall, and thereby streaking it most curiously with flour. “Thank you very much, my dear. Even if we never manage it, I won’t forget that you said it!”
Norah found herself patting the stalwart shoulder.
“Indeed, we’ll manage it,” she said. “Now, don’t you worry about anything but that lovely souffle.”
“Oh, the souffle is assured now,” said Miss de Lisle, beating her mixture scientifically. “Now I shall have beautiful thoughts to put into it! You have no idea what that means. Now, if I sat here mixing, and thought of, say, Mrs. Atkins, it would probably be as heavy as lead!” She sighed. “I believe, Miss Linton, I could teach you something of the real poetry of cooking. I’m sure you have the right sort of soul!”