“Pan is the only heathen deity that has anything to do with cookery,” said Owen. “Frying-pan, you know, and stew-pan.”
My grandfather caught at the idea, but had not succeeded in making anything of it, or in approximating to the solution of the riddle, when Carlota entered from an inner room.
“I wish, my dear, you would see about the dinner,” said the Major; “’tis a quarter past three.”
“Si, mi vida” (yes, my life), said Carlota, who was in the habit of bestowing lavishly on my grandfather the most endearing epithets in the Spanish language, some of them, perhaps, not particularly applicable—niño de mi alma (child of my soul), luz de mis ojos (light of my eyes), and the like; none of which appeared to have any more effect on the object of them than if they had been addressed to somebody else.
Carlota rung the bell, which nobody answered. “Nurse is busy with de niña,” she said, when nobody answered it; “I go myself to de cocina” (kitchen)—she spoke English as yet but imperfectly.
“There’s one comfort in delay,” said the Major; “’tis better to boil a ham too much than too little—and yet I shouldn’t like it overdone either.”
Here they were alarmed by an exclamation from Carlota. “Ah Dios! Caramba! Ven, ven, mi niño!” cried she from the kitchen.
The Major and Owen hastened to the kitchen, which was so close at hand that the smell of the dinner sometimes anticipated its appearance in the dining-room. Mrs Bags, the new cook, was seated before the fire. On the table beside her was an empty champagne bottle, the fellow to which protruded its neck from a pail in one corner, where the Major had put it to cool; and another bottle of more robust build, about half-full, was also beside her. The countenance of Mrs Bags wore a pleasant and satisfied, though not very intelligent smile, as she gazed steadfastly on the ham that was roasting on a spit before the fire—at least one side of it was done quite black, while the other oozed with warm grease; for the machinery which should have turned it was not in motion.
“Caramba!” exclaimed Carlota, with uplifted hands. “Que picarilla!”—(What a knave of a woman!)
“Gracious heavens!” said my grandfather, “she’s roasting it! Who ever heard of a roast ham?”