The maid, properly impressed, carried the message at once; and curiosity brought madame in surprising haste to the hall, where she looked Patsy over with frank amazement.
“Madame speak French? Ah, I thought so. Madame desires a cook—voilà!”
The abruptness of this announcement turned madame giddy. “How did you know? Mine did not leave half an hour ago; there isn’t another French cook within five miles; it is unbelievable.”
“It is Providence.” Patsy cast her eyes devoutly heavenward.
“You have references—”
“References!” Patsy shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. “What would madame do with references? She cannot eat them; she cannot feed them to her guests. I can cook. Is that not sufficient?”
“But—you do not think—It is impossible that I ever employ a servant without references. And you—you look like anything in the world but a French cook.”
“Madame is not so foolish as to find fault with the ways of Providence, or judge one by one’s clothes? Who knows—at this moment it may be à la mode in Paris for cooks to wear sailor blouses. Besides, madame is mistaken; I am not a servant. I am an artist—a culinary artist.”
“You can cook, truly?”
“But yes, madame!”