Grizel had a flash of inspiration. Lard was the superlative, dripping the positive; naturally, then, all plain cooks angled for the former, and all British Matrons insisted on the latter. She put on a severe air and said firmly:
“Not if your pans are perfectly clean!” and was so overjoyed at her own aptness, that she was ready to allow anything under the sun. Nevertheless, the detective instinct having been born in her heart, she was resolved, as she mentally phrased it, to track lard to the death.
Cook was staring open-eyed, a faint misgiving mingled with the former complaisance. When a mistress began talking of keeping pans clean, she was not so green as had been expected! Her lips set in obstinate fashion.
“Some ladies,” she said, “are so fussy about the colour. You can’t help getting it darker with dripping.”
Grizel felt hopelessly that she had lost the scent. It was a desperate position, face to face with her enemy, defenceless, yet aware that an instant’s failure must lead to wholesale debacle. “I can’t tackle her alone,” she told herself desperately. “I must—I must have a confederate!” and throwing principle to the winds, in a flash of thought she created a fictitious Emily, and wove around her a suitable family history. Faithful servant, perfect cook, expert dripping-er, rent by marriage from a sorrowing mistress, now slumbering in a village grave! With a voice imbued with the sacredness of the remembrance, she pronounced firmly: “Emily did! She always got it white.”
“Oh, rolled!” cried the cook. The corners of her lips gave a slight expressive twitch before she added in automatic fashion. “Yes, ’Um—Madam,—I quite understand.” She crossed the floor and took down a slate from its nail, while Grizel made a mental note. “Lard.—Its Use and Abuse.—Differentiate from dripping.—Why darker? Under what circumstances should it be forbidden or allowed?”
“Soles,” said the cook firmly. “And soup?”
“Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple dinner—soup, fish, an entrée, one solid course, sweets—lots of cream, please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you’ll arrange all that. That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu ready.”
The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would require a “rise,” if they expected a party dinner every night. If Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her dumb.
“Soles,” she repeated stolidly. “And soup. What kind of soup?”