She finished her coffee and went into the big clean drab-coloured kitchen to interview the cook about the day's meals and write lists for the grocer and butcher. She ordered a good dinner—Laurence would be home, her father was coming, there might be other guests, for Laurence often brought some one. The cook stood by the table, rolling her hands in her apron and looking rather sullen, and when Mary rose for her usual quick inspection of pantries and ice-box, Hilda said:
"Mrs. Carlin, I think I be leaving the end of the month."
"Why?" asked Mary sharply.
"Oh—I think I be leaving."
"Is it the work—the wages?"
"No—no, I like the place, but ... I think I be leaving."
Mary gazed at her, and finally said, "I know what it is—you've been quarrelling with Anna."
The cook made no answer, but continued to look sullen.
"Now, Hilda," said Mary firmly, "you've been with me a year; in that time I've had three waitresses, and you've quarrelled with every one of them. I like Anna and I'm not going to let her go. I like you too, but you're hard to get along with. If you want to leave at the end of the month you can. I don't want to hear what you've been fighting about. I advise you to think it over, and remember you'll always quarrel, wherever you go, that's the way you're made. Let me know in a week."