"Yes. Aren't you pleased?" Jill laughed aloud. "You really are a comfort, Stephen! What should we do without your help?" She rose to her feet as she spoke. "Roddy was saying the other day"—she covered her mother's basin of soup and went on with mischievous glee—"'What I do like about Stephen is he always knows what's what! You've only to look at his socks and ties—they match to a T—he's such a K-nut!' D'you like being a Nut, Stephen?"
Her voice was innocence itself.
She turned with the tray in her hand, and added, as he answered nothing:
"Drink your soup—it will do you good! And Mother's sure to ask for news of your appetite."
The door banged and she was gone.
Stephen turned with a frown to Lizzie, now recovered from her tantrums and inwardly enjoying the sport, for the servants all hated the man.
He enjoyed in the kitchen circle the pseudonym of "The Cuckoo"—a flight of fancy on Cook's part, who likened the house to a Robin's nest!
"Sherry, please," he ordered sharply.
"There's none up, sir," the maid snapped. She would miss nothing by her manner, for Stephen rarely gave a tip.
Down came Jill with a kind message.