He had, as yet, written nothing more. But on a piece of paper beside the letter he had traced the outlines of a woman’s head. Whose head should it be, I ask you, but Kitty’s?
I was amazed at the sight. My colour came and went.
“Phœbe,” cried Mrs. Dunquerque warningly, “be careful how you touch the papers! There, sir, we have your room straight for you. It looks a little cleaner than it did awhile since.”
“Surely,” he replied, without looking around. “Yes, I am truly obliged to you, madam. As for this girl”—still he would not look at me—“perhaps——”
He placed a whole crown-piece in my hand. A crown-piece for such a simple piece of work! Enough to make the best of housemaids grasping! This is how men spoil servants.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” I asked, in a feigned voice.
“Nothing, child, nothing. Stay—yes. One must eat a little, sometimes. Get me some dinner by-and-by.”
This was all for that time. We went away, and we spent the rest of the morning in making him such a little dinner as we thought must please him. First we got from the market a breast of veal, which we roasted with a little stuffing, and dished with a slice or two of bacon, nicely broiled, some melted butter made with care, and a lemon. This, to my mind, forms a dish fit for a prince. We added to this some haricot beans, with butter and sweet herbs, and a dish of young potatoes. Then we made a little fruit pudding and a custard, nicely browned, and, at two o’clock, put all upon a tray, and I carried it downstairs, still with my hair over my eyes, my cap still awry, and the corner of the apron still in my teeth.
I set the food before him and waited to serve him. But he would not let me.
Ah! had he known how I longed to do something for him, and what a happiness it was simply to make his dinner, to prepare his vegetables for him, and to boil his pudding! But how should he guess?