"Can't she spare me a moment?"
"Wouldn't ask her to." Sarah lifted her tray—and her nose—and marched out. Cecil looked black.
"Gad! I wish the mater had to deal with those girls!" he said viciously—Mrs. Geoffrey Linton was of the employers who "change their maids" with every new moon. "She'd make them sit up, I'll wager. Abominable impertinence!" He strolled to the door, and looked out across the garden discontentedly. "What on earth is there for a man to do? Well, I'll hunt up the important cousin."
At the moment, Norah was quite of importance. Mrs. Brown had succumbed to a headache earlier in the day. Norah had found her, white-faced and miserable, bending over a preserving pan full of jam, waiting for the mystical moment when it should "jell." Ordered to rest, poor Brownie had stoutly refused—was there not more baking to be done, impossible to put off, to say nothing of the jam? A brisk engagement had ensued, from which Norah had emerged victorious, the reins of government in her hands for the day. Brownie, still protesting, had been put on her bed with a handkerchief steeped in eau-de-Cologne on her throbbing forehead, and Norah had returned to the kitchen to varied occupations.
The jam had behaved beautifully; had "jelled" in the most satisfactory manner, just the right colour; now it stood in a neat array of jars on a side table, waiting to be sealed and labelled when cold. Then, after lunch, Norah had plunged into the mysteries of pastry, and was considerably relieved when her mince pies turned out very closely akin to those of Brownie, which were famous. Puddings for dinner had followed, and were now cooling in the dairy. Finally, the joint being in the oven, and vegetables prepared, the cook had compounded Jim's favourite cake, which was now baking; during which delicate operation, with a large dab of flour on her nose, the cook sat at the table, and wrote a letter.
"DEAR OLD JIM,—This must be in pencil, 'cause I'm watching a cake that's in the oven, and I'm awfully scared of it burning, so I don't dare to go for the ink. Dad said I was to write and tell you we would meet you on Wednesday, unless we heard from you again. We are all awfully glad and excited about you coming. I'm sure Tait and Puck understand, 'cause I told them to-day, and they barked like anything. Your room is all right, and we've put in another cupboard. We're all so sorry about Wally not coming, but we hope he will come later on. Do make him.
"Dad and I aren't talking about me going to school. It can't be helped, and it only makes you jolly blue to talk about it.
"Cecil's come, and he's the queerest specimen of a boy I ever saw. He's awfully grown up, but he's small and terribly swagger. His riding clothes are gorgeous, and you mustn't laugh at them. Dad did, but it was into Bobs' mane. He came with us cutting-out, and Betty was too good for him, swinging round, so he came a lovely cropper into some wild raspberries. It was so funny no one could have helped laughing, and he wasn't really hurt, only prickled and very wild. I am afraid he isn't enjoying himself very much, but of course he will be all right when you come. It's jolly hard to entertain him, 'cause he isn't a bit keen about anything. He has a tremendous array of shaving tackle. And he has a hand glass. Do you think he will lend it to you to see your back hair?
"Bobs is just lovelier than ever. I never knew him go so well as he is now, and he perfectly loves a jump. Dad has a new horse he calls Monarch, and he is a beauty, he is black with a star. OF COURSE, don't say anything about Cecil's spill to anybody, he could not help it. And he had a much bigger laugh at me, 'cause I fell into the lagoon the day he came. I will tell you all about it when you come.
"The place is looking lovely, and hasn't dried up a bit—"