“And what would you like for the room?”
“In future,” said Grizel firmly, “I should like the menu for the day drawn out, ready to be submitted to me every morning.”
“I have never been uzed—” began the cook, then her eyes met those of her mistress, and to her own amazement she found herself concluding lamely, “Of course if you wish it, ’Um, I must try! ... The fish-man is waiting for horders.”
“Au diable avec le poissonnier!” ejaculated Grizel sotto voce. She leant back against the corner of the dresser, the tail of her white robe folded round in front, displaying the small pink shoes to cook’s appraising eyes. Her eyes roamed here and there over the kitchen, but studiously avoided the provisions on the table. From the region of the back door sounded a whistle, impatient and peremptory. The cook glanced around, glanced back at the pink and white figure standing with head on one side, leisurely regarding the arrangement of brass on the mantelpiece, and was goaded into the extreme course of making a suggestion.
“P’raps... soles!”
“Oh, certainly!” cried Grizel swiftly. “Soles.”
The cook ambled slowly towards the back door. Returning a moment later, she folded her arms, and continued tentatively: “The grocer’ll be next. I ordered in the usuals yesterday—but there’ll be a few extras.—I wanted to ask, ’Um, if you allowed lard?”
“Madam,” corrected Grizel sweetly, and pursed her lips, as though in deliberation. To herself she was declaiming desperately: “Now may the powers preserve me, ... one slip, and I am undid! What on earth does she mean by cornering me like this? I must temporise, and lure her on.” ... She stroked her nose, and said judicially:
“Of course—it depends!”
“Most ladies do,” affirmed the cook. “If they’re particular. It’s difficult to get it the same with dripping.”