“You’ve got your key? That’s right. You won’t be back till pretty late, of course. I’ll go and tell Claire not to bolt the door.”
When Kay reached the kitchen she found that her faithful follower had stepped out of the pages of Romeo and Juliet into those of Macbeth. She was bending over a cauldron, dropping things into it. The kitten, now comparatively dry and decustarded, eyed her with bright interest from a shelf on the dresser.
“This is the new soup, Miss Kay,” she announced with modest pride.
“It smells fine,” said Kay, wincing slightly as a painful aroma of burning smote her nostrils. “I say, Claire, I wish you wouldn’t throw onions at Mr. Braddock.”
“I went up and got it back,” Claire reassured her. “It’s in the soup now.”
“You’ll be in the soup if you do that sort of thing. What,” asked Kay virtuously, “will the neighbours say?”
“There aren’t any neighbours,” Claire pointed out. A wistful look came into her perky face. “I wish someone would hurry up and move into Mon Ree-poss,” she said. “I don’t like not having next-doors. Gets lonely for a girl all day with no one to talk to.”
“Well, when you talk to Mr. Braddock, don’t do it at the top of your voice. Please understand that I don’t like it.”
“Now,” said Claire simply, “you’re cross with me.” And without further preamble she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
It was this sensitiveness of hers that made it so difficult for the young chatelaine of San Rafael to deal with the domestic staff. Kay was a warm-hearted girl, and a warm-hearted girl can never be completely at her ease when she is making cooks cry. It took ten minutes of sedulous petting to restore the emotional Miss Lippett to her usual cheerfulness.