“Ah, well,” he said, “in the sight of God, no doubt——”
“I’m the cook.”
“Oh,” said Sam, relieved, “that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Well, you know, it seemed a trifle odd for a moment that you should be popping about here at this time of night with your hair in curlers and your little white ankles peeping out from under a dressing gown.”
“Coo!” said Claire in a modest flutter. She performed a swift adjustment of the garment’s folds.
“But if you’re Mr. Braddock’s cook——”
“Who said I was Mr. Braddock’s cook?”
“You did.”
“I didn’t any such thing. I’m Mr. Wrenn’s cook.”