Campbell: “And she left you to meet her here, and keep her—a cook you’d never set eyes on! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah, ha, ha, ha! What’s her name?”
Roberts: “Agnes couldn’t remember her last name—one never remembers a cook’s last name. Her first name is Norah or Bridget.”
Campbell: “Maggie, perhaps; they all sound alike. Ah, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! This improves.”
Roberts: “Don’t, Willis; you’ll attract attention. What—what shall I do? If Agnes comes back, and finds I’ve let the cook get away, she’ll be terribly put out.”
Campbell: “Perfectly furious, you poor old fellow!—the rage of a disappointed pigeon! I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything. Oh my! I wish Amy was here. Did—did—Agnes”—(he struggles with his laughter, and explodes from time to time between syllables)—“did she tell you how the woman looked?”
Roberts: “She said she was a very respectable-looking old thing—a perfect butter-ball. I suppose she was stout.”
Campbell: “That covers the ground of a great many cooks. They’re apt to look respectable when they’re off duty and they’re not in liquor, and they’re apt to be perfect butter-balls. Any other distinctive traits?”
Roberts, ruefully: “I don’t know. She’s Irish, and a Catholic.”
Campbell: “They’re apt to be Irish, and Catholics too. Well, Roberts, I don’t see what you can ask better. All you’ve got to do is to pick out a respectable butter-ball of that religion and nationality, and tell her you’re Mrs. Roberts’s husband, and you’re to keep her from slipping away till Mrs. Roberts gets here.”
Roberts: “Oh, pshaw, now, Willis! What would you do?”