“Not quite all,” I laughed, as I opened the chimney cupboard to the left of my west fireplace.
“Lucky you read what you did before you began ter run a farm,” said Bert.
I now brought forth from the cupboard a bottle of my choicest Bourbon and four glasses. The ladies consented to the tiniest sip, but, “There’s nothin’ stingy about me!” said Bert. “Here’s to yer, Mr. Upton, and to yer house!”
We set our glasses down just as Mrs. Pillig announced dinner. On the way across the hall I managed to touch the girl’s hand once more. “For the second centrepiece, dear fairy,” I whispered.
Bert was in rare form that evening, and kept us in gales of merriment. Mrs. Pillig brought the soup and meat with anxious gravity, set the courses on the table, and then stopped to chat with Mrs. Temple, or to listen to Bert’s stories. She amused me almost as much as Bert did. Bert and his wife weren’t company to her, and the impersonal attitude of a servant was quite impossible for her. It was a family party with the waitress included. Miss Goodwin and I exchanged glances of amusement across the table.
Then came the lemon pie.
“Now there’s a pie!” said Mrs. Pillig, setting it proudly before me.
I picked up my mother’s old silver pie knife and carefully sank it down through the two-inch mass of puffy brown méringue spangled with golden drops, the under layer of lemon-yellow body, and finally the flaky, marvellously dry and tender bottom crust.
“Mrs. Pillig,” said I, “pie is right!”
“Marthy,” said Bert, smacking his lips over the first mouthful, “if you could make a pie like this, you’d be perfect.”