Amelia changed color, and looked confused.
“I am loth to alarm you, ma’am,” she said; “and I can’t rightly see what it is my duty to do.”
Mrs. Bowmore’s heart sank within her under the cruelest of all terrors, the terror of something unknown. “Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said faintly. “Whatever it is, let me know it.”
She led the way back to the parlor. The housemaid followed her. The cook (declining to be left alone) followed the housemaid.
“It was something I heard early this afternoon, ma’am,” Amelia began. “Cook happened to be busy—”
The cook interposed: she had not forgiven the housemaid for calling her a simpleton. “No, Amelia, if you must bring me into it—not busy. Uneasy in my mind on the subject of the soup.”
“I don’t know that your mind makes much difference,” Amelia resumed. “What it comes to is this—it was I, and not you, who went into the kitchen-garden for the vegetables.”
“Not by my wish, Heaven knows!” persisted the cook.
“Leave the room!” said Mrs. Bowmore. Even her patience had given way at last.
The cook looked as if she declined to believe her own ears. Mrs. Bowmore pointed to the door. The cook said “Oh?”—accenting it as a question. Mrs. Bowmore’s finger still pointed. The cook, in solemn silence, yielded to circumstances, and banged the door.