"P'raps... soles!"

"Oh, certainly!" cried Grizel swiftly. "Soles."

The cook ambled slowly towards the back door. Returning a moment later, she folded her arms, and continued tentatively: "The grocer'll be next.

I ordered in the usuals yesterday--but there'll be a few extras.--I wanted to ask, 'Um, if you allowed lard?"

"Madam," corrected Grizel sweetly, and pursed her lips, as though in deliberation. To herself she was declaiming desperately: "Now may the powers preserve me, ... one slip, and I am undid! What on earth does she mean by cornering me like this? I must temporise, and lure her on."

... She stroked her nose, and said judicially:

"Of course--it depends!"

"Most ladies do," affirmed the cook. "If they're particular. It's difficult to get it the same with dripping."

Grizel had a flash of inspiration. Lard was the superlative, dripping the positive; naturally, then, all plain cooks angled for the former, and all British Matrons insisted on the latter. She put on a severe air and said firmly:

"Not if your pans are perfectly clean!" and was so overjoyed at her own aptness, that she was ready to allow anything under the sun.

Nevertheless, the detective instinct having been born in her heart, she was resolved, as she mentally phrased it, to track lard to the death.

Cook was staring open-eyed, a faint misgiving mingled with the former complaisance. When a mistress began talking of keeping pans clean, she was not so green as had been expected! Her lips set in obstinate fashion.

"Some ladies," she said, "are so fussy about the colour. You can't help getting it darker with dripping."

Grizel felt hopelessly that she had lost the scent. It was a desperate position, face to face with her enemy, defenceless, yet aware that an instant's failure must lead to wholesale debacle. "I can't tackle her alone," she told herself desperately. "I must--I must have a confederate!" and throwing principle to the winds, in a flash of thought she created a fict.i.tious Emily, and wove around her a suitable family history. Faithful servant, perfect cook, expert dripping-er, rent by marriage from a sorrowing mistress, now slumbering in a village grave!

With a voice imbued with the sacredness of the remembrance, she p.r.o.nounced firmly: "Emily did! She _always_ got it white."

"Oh, _rolled_!" cried the cook. The corners of her lips gave a slight expressive twitch before she added in automatic fashion. "Yes, 'Um-- Madam,--I quite understand." She crossed the floor and took down a slate from its nail, while Grizel made a mental note. "Lard.--Its Use and Abuse.--Differentiate from dripping.--Why darker? Under what circ.u.mstances should it be forbidden or allowed?"

"Soles," said the cook firmly. "And soup?"

"Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple dinner--soup, fish, an entree, one solid course, sweets--lots of cream, please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you'll arrange all that.

That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu ready."

The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would require a "rise," if they expected a party dinner every night. If Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her dumb.

"Soles," she repeated stolidly. "And soup. What kind of soup?"

"_Clear_!" said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but cook cut short her retreat.

"Entree, you said, Ma'am. What kind of entree? And there's lunch. And breakfast. To-morrow's breakfast. Would it be bacon?"

Grizel waved an impatient hand.

"Bacon certainly. And er--omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual things one _does_ have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish, please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We've discussed everything, I think." She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered face. "And I'm sure," she added daringly, "you'll manage splendidly with dripping!"

In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a pa.s.sage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin's sanctum.

Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole.

"Martin!"

A voice from within answered with would-be sternness:

"Go away!"

"Martin... I'm sorry! Just _one_ moment... Something I _must_ ask you.--Most important..."

"Go on, then... What is it?"

"_What--Is--Lard_?"

The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold.

"You goose! What on earth are you talking about?"

"That's just it. I don't know. And how on earth am I to find out!

I've been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or don't I, and why should I not, and for goodness' sake _how_ does it differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly.

I thought I'd better find out at once."

"Yes, but you mustn't come running to me for such information. I've got to buy the lard, remember, and I shan't be able to afford it, if I'm interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine..."

"Then she'd have a reprieve, and I'd have done a good deed. You can't seriously have begun yet, and this is so deadly important. You might spare five minutes to instruct your poor wife."

Grizel perched herself on the corner of the table, and tilted the boudoir cap at a beguiling angle. Martin stood with his back to the fire and adopted a professorial air.

"Lard," he said sententiously, "is a substance compounded of a whitey grease, contained for the purposes of trade in balloons or bladders of skins--"

Grizel's face showed a network of horrified lines.

"How exceedingly disagreeable! I shall certainly _not_ allow it... And what is dripping?"

"Dripping is, er--brown! So called because it drips from the meat in the process of cooking. It is inferior to lard, and aspires to no bladder, but lives in odd receptacles, such as jam jars. It is supposed to supply an unconquerable temptation to a plain cook, and there are fiends in the shape of men, who are said to spend their life tempting cooks to sell the dripping. Katrine used to see dripping in the eye of every unknown man who opened the gate. I never heard her make any allegations about lard. Does that distinction afford you any illumination?"

Grizel sighed, and turned to the door with an air of resignation.

"Well, good-bye, my loved one! Be very good to me, for you won't have me long. If I've got to order meals, I shall never be able to eat them.

I foresee that. I never heard so much about grease in my life. Is there nothing decent one could use instead?"

Martin hesitated.

"I believe--sometimes--b.u.t.ter!"

Grizel waved a triumphant hand.

"Of course! b.u.t.ter! Why couldn't you have said that before? Nice, clean, fresh b.u.t.ter. I'll tell her I allow _nothing_ else. What a fuss over nothing! ... Martin, you're wearing a green tie. I've never seen you in green before... Darling! you're adorable in green..."

CHAPTER FOUR.

GRIZEL AT HOME.