"Pommes de terre," suggested Miss Collingsby.
"You said we had. I haven't looked over the stores."
"I said so? Not if I was awake."
"You stupid!" laughed the lady. "They are potatoes."
"O, are they? Then we have plenty of them. They say that a rose by any other name smells as sweet; and I suppose a potato in any other language tastes the same. Very well. Get up a good dinner, Phil; one fit for a queen—for a queen is to eat it."
"How silly!" said Miss Collingsby, as I went below.
"Better and fairer than any queen."
"I declare, Mr. Waterford, you are becoming insufferable. I shall have to go down there and help Phil get dinner. Besides, I want to talk French with him. And I want to see the kitchen."
I passed through the cabin into the little cook-room, in the forecastle, where I lighted the fire.