He had rather hoped when Molly once got back to Wellington that his food would be better; no doubt it would as soon as she, poor girl, could get rested up. He was thankful, indeed, now that she was asleep and tiptoed out of the room and house without making a sound.
She slept until late in the morning and then the business of the day began, getting little Mildred fed and washed and dressed and fed again and then to sleep. The good-natured, if wholly incapable, Katy hung around and waited on the pretty young mistress. Katy had never been out in service in the “schtates,” but had come from New York in answer to an advertisement in a newspaper inserted by the despairing professor when he had come back to Wellington alone while his wife waited in Kentucky for news of her brother. He had had kindly visions of getting a good Irish cook and having the housekeeping all running beautifully before Molly’s return.
Immigrant Katy proved rosy and willing but with no more conception of how to cook than she had how to clean. She was great on “scroobing,” but walls and furniture and carpets were not supposed to be scrubbed. The kitchen floor and pantry shelves were alike beautiful after her administrations, but gold dust and a stiff brush had not improved the appearance of the piano legs. Edwin had come home in the nick of time to stop her before she vented her energies on Molly’s own Persian rug, the pride of her heart because of the wonderful blue in it.
“What time is it, Katy?” asked Molly after the baby was absolutely finished and tucked in her carriage to stay on the porch.
“’Tis twilve of the clock, Miss, and I haven’t so much as turned a hand below schtairs.”
“Oh, it can’t be that late! Lunch at one! What are we to have?”
“And that I am not knowing, Miss. Sure and there is nothing in the house.”
“Oh, Katy, and I have been dawdling up here for hours! I forgot about keeping house, I was so taken up with the baby.”
“Yes, and no doubt your man will be sour about it, too.”
Molly, still in her kimono, flew to the regions below and began frantically to search for something to concoct into luncheon. A forlorn piece of roast veal was excavated and half a loaf of stale baker’s bread. A can of asparagus, a leftover from the housekeeping of the spring, was unearthed. Olive oil was in the refrigerator, also, butter, milk and eggs. The veal looked very hopeless, evidently having reposed for hours in a half cold oven before it had furnished forth a miserable dinner for the poor professor.