Chapter 7

HOW JONAH OBEYED HIS ORDERS, AND DAPHNE AND KATHARINE FESTIVAL BACKED THE SAME HORSE.

Berry laid down his knife and fork and raised his eyes to heaven.

"This," he said, "is the frozen edge. I'm getting used to the distemper which is brought me in lieu of soup, and, although I prefer salmon cooked to raw, you may have noticed that I consumed my portion without a word. But this...." Contemptuously he indicated the severed _tournedos_ upon his plate. "You know, they must have been using the lime-kiln. Nobody could get such a withered effect with an electric cooker. Oh, and look at our olive. Quick, before it shuts up."

Jill began to shake with laughter.

"I can't help it," said Daphne desperately. "I know it's awful, but what can we do?"

"There must be some cooks somewhere," said I. "The breed isn't extinct. And they can't all be irrevocably suited. I always thought the Cooks' Brigade was one of the most mobile arms of domestic service."

"I've done everything," said my sister, "except advertise. Katharine Festival put me off that. She says she spent seven pounds on advertisements and never got a single answer. But I've done everything else. I've asked everybody I know, my name's on the books of every registry office I've ever heard of, and I've written and sent stamped addressed envelopes to every cook whose name I've been given. Three out of about sixty have replied, saying they were already suited. One came here, practically said she'd come, and then wrote to say she was frightened of the electric cooker. And another wanted a hundred a year and a private bathroom. It's simply hopeless."

"If," said Berry, "we survive this meal, I'll write to Jonah and tell him to bring one back with him. If he can't raise one in Paris, he ought to be shot. And now let's have a sweep on the savoury. I'll bet it tastes of paraffin and looks like a pre-War divvot."

"Let's try advertising," said Jill. "Katharine mayn't have had a good one."

"I agree," said I. "I'll get one out to-night. A real snorter."

In silence the traces of the course which had provoked the outburst were removed, clean plates were set before us, and the footman advanced with a dish of nauseous-looking fritters.

Daphne instinctively recoiled.

"Hullo," said Berry. "Another gas attack?"

With an effort my sister recovered herself and took one with a shaking hand. Loyally Jill followed her example, and, with tears running down her cheeks, induced a glutinous slab to quit the silver, to which it clung desperately.

I declined the delicacy.

With compressed lips the servant offered it to my brother-in-law.

Berry shook his head.

"Mother wouldn't like me to," he said. "But I can see it's very tasty." He turned to his wife. "What a wonderful thing perfume is! You know, the smell of burnt fat always makes me think of the Edgware Road at dusk."

"Hush," said I, consulting the _menu_. "_De mortuis._ Those were banana fritters. That slimy crust enshrined the remains of a once succulent fruit."

"What?" said Berry. "Like beans in amber? How very touching! I suppose undertakers are easier than cooks. Never mind. It's much cheaper. I shan't want to be reminded of food for several days now." He looked across the table to Daphne. "After what I've just seen, I feel I can give the savoury a miss. Do you agree, darling? Or has the fritter acted as an _apéritif_?"

My sister addressed herself to Jill.

"Don't eat it, dear. It's--it's not very nice." She rose. "Shall we go?"

Gloomily we followed her into the library, where I opened all the windows and Berry lighted a huge cigar, in the hope of effacing the still pungent memory of the unsavoury sweet. Gradually it faded away....

Three weeks had passed since the mistress of our kitchen, who had reigned uninterruptedly for seven years, had been knocked down by a taxi and sustained a broken leg. Simple though the fracture fortunately was, at least another nine weeks must elapse before she could attempt to resume her duties, and we were in evil case. Every day we became more painfully aware of the store which we had unconsciously set by decently-cooked food. As time went on, the physical and mental disorder, consequent upon Mrs. Mason's accident, became more and more pronounced. All topics of conversation became subservient to the burning question of filling the void occasioned by her absence. Worst of all, dissatisfaction was rampant in the servants' hall, and Daphne's maid had hinted broadly that, if a cook was not shortly forthcoming, resignations would be--an intimation which made us desperate. Moreover, in another month we were due to leave Town and repair to White Ladies. There, deep in the country, with no restaurants or clubs to fall back upon, we should be wholly at the mercy of whoever controlled the preparation of our food, and, unless the situation improved considerably, the prospect was far from palatable.

Moodily I extinguished my cigarette and filled and lighted a pipe in its stead. Then I remembered my threat.

Berry was writing a letter, so I extracted a sheet of notepaper from the left-hand drawer and, taking a pencil from my pocket, sat down on the sofa and set to work to compose an advertisement calculated to allure the most suspicious and _blasée_ cook that ever was foaled.

Jill sat labouring with her needle upon a dainty tea-cloth, pausing now and again to hold a whispered and one-sided conversation with Nobby, who lay at inelegant ease supine between us. Perched upon the arm of a deep armchair, my sister was subjecting the space devoted by five daily papers to the announcement of "Situations Required" to a second and more leisurely examination.

Presently she rose with a sigh and crossed to the telephone.

We knew what was coming.

Every night she and Katharine Festival communicated to one another their respective failures of the day. More often than not, these took the simple form of "negative information."

She was connected immediately.

"Hullo, that you, Katharine? ... Yes, Daphne. Any luck? ... Not much. You know, it's simply hopeless. What? ... 'Widow with two boys of seven and nine'? Thank you. I'd rather ... Exactly ... Well, I don't know. I'd give it up, only it's so awful ... Awful."

"If she doesn't believe it, ask her to dinner," said Berry.

"Shut up," said Daphne. "It's all right, Katharine. I was speaking to Berry ... Oh, he's fed to the teeth."

"I cannot congratulate you," said her husband, "upon your choice of metaphor."

My sister ignored the interruption.

"Oh, rather ... His food means a lot to him, you know."

"This," said her husband, "is approaching the obscene. I dine off tepid wash and raw fish, I am tormented by the production of a once luscious fillet deliberately rendered unfit for human consumption, and I am deprived of my now ravening appetite by the nauseating reek from the shock of whose assault I am still trying to rally my olfactory nerves. All this I endure with that unfailing good----"

"Will you be quiet?" said his wife. "How can I---"

"No, I won't," said Berry. "My finer feelings are outraged. And that upon an empty stomach. I shall write home and ask to be taken away. I shall----"

"Katharine," said Daphne, "I can't hear you because that fool Berry is talking, but Boy's getting out an advertisement, and we're going to ... Oh, are you? I thought you said you'd given it up ... Another nineteen shillings' worth? Well, here's luck, anyway ... Yes, of course. But I daren't hope ... Good-bye." She replaced the receiver and turned to me. "Katharine's going to start advertising again."

"Is she?" I grunted. "Well, I'll bet she doesn't beat this. Listen.

_COOK, capable, experienced, is offered for three months abnormal wages, every luxury and a leisurely existence: electric cooker: constant hot water: kitchen-maid: separate bedroom: servants' hall: late breakfast: town and country: followers welcomed.--Mrs. Pleydell, 7, Cholmondeley Street, Mayfair: 'Phone, Mayfair 9999."_

"That's the style," said Berry. "Let me know when it's going to appear, and I'll get a bedroom at the Club. When you've weeded the best out of the first hundred thousand, I'll come back and give the casting vote."

From behind, my sister put her arms about my neck and laid her soft cheek against mine.

"My dear," she murmured, "I daren't. Half the cooks in England would leave their situations."

"So much the better," said I. "All's fair in love and war. I don't know which this is, but we'll call it 'love' and chance it. Besides," I added cunningly, "we must knock out Katharine."

The light of battle leapt into my sister's eyes. Looking at it from her point of view, I realized that my judgment had been ill-considered. Plainly it was not a question of love, but of war--"and that most deadly." She drew her arms from my neck and stood upright.

"Couldn't you leave out my name and just put 'Box So-and-so'?"

I shook my head.

"That's so intangible. Besides, I think the telephone number's a great wheeze." Thoughtfully she crossed to the fireplace and lighted a cigarette. "I'll send it to-morrow," I said.

Suddenly the room was full of silvery laughter.

From Berry's side at the writing-table Jill looked up sparkling.

"Listen to this," she said, holding up the letter which my brother-in-law had just completed.

_DEAR BROTHER,_

_Incompetent bungler though you are, and bitter as has been my experience of your gaucherie in the past, I am once again about to prove whether out of the dunghill of inefficiency which, with unconscious humour, you style your 'mind' there can be coaxed a shred of reliability and understanding._

_It is within your knowledge that some three weeks ago this household was suddenly deprived of the services of its cook. This out of a clear sky and, if we may believe the police, in one of those uncharted purlieus which shroud in mystery the source of the Cromwell Road. After four lean days your gluttonous instincts led you precipitately to withdraw to Paris, from whence, knowing your unshakable belief in the vilest forms of profligacy, I appreciate that lack of means must ere long enforce your return._

_Therefore I write._

_For twenty-two unforgettable sultry days we have endured the ghastly pleasantries of charwomen, better qualified to victual the lower animals than mankind. To call the first meal "breakfast" is sheer blasphemy: lunch is a hollow mockery: dinner, the abomination of desolation. I do what I can with grape-nuts and the gas-stove in the bathroom, but the result is unhappy, and last night the milk was too quick for me._

_I therefore implore you to collect a cook in Paris without delay. Bring it with you when you come, or, better still, send it in advance, carriage paid. Luxury shall be heaped upon it. Its slightest whim shall be gratified, and it shall go to "the movies" at my expense, whenever I am sent tickets. Can generosity go further? Wages no object: fare paid back to Paris as soon as Mrs. Mason's leg can carry her._

_Brother, I beseech you, take immediate action. The horror of our plight cannot be exaggerated. Do something--anything. Misrepresent facts, corrupt honesty, suborn the faithful, but--procure a cook._

_My maw reminds me that it is the hour of grape-nuts, so I must go._

_BERRY._

_P.S.--If you can't raise one, I shouldn't come back. Just go to some high place and quietly push yourself off. It will be simpler and avoid a scene which would be painful to us both._

"That's rather worse than the advertisement," said Daphne. "But, as Jonah is accustomed to your Interpretation of the art of letter-writing, I suppose it doesn't much matter."

"When," said Berry, "you are making yourself sick upon _tête de veau en tortue_ and _crêpes Suzette_, I shall remind you of those idle words."

* * * * *

The advertisement appeared for the first time on Thursday morning.

As I entered the dining-room at half-past nine--

"It's in," said Jill. "On the front page."

"Yes," said Berry, "it's most arresting. Applicants will arrive from all over the kingdom. It's inevitable. Nothing can stop them. Old and trusted retainers will become unsettled. The domestic upheaval will be unparalleled."

I read the advertisement through. In cold print my handiwork certainly looked terribly alluring. Then I laid down the paper and strolled to the window. It had been raining, but now the sun was out, and the cool fresh air of the June morning was sweet and winsome. As I looked into the glistening street--

"It's a bit early yet," continued Berry. "Give 'em a chance. I should think they'll start about ten. I wonder how far the queue will reach," he added reflectively. "I hope the police take it past The Albert Memorial. Then they can sit on the steps."

"Nonsense," said I a little uneasily. "We may get an answer or two to-morrow. I think we shall. But cooks are few and far between."

"They won't be few and they'll be anything but far between by twelve o'clock." He tapped the provocative paragraph with an accusing finger. "This is a direct incitement to repair to 7, Cholmondeley Street, or as near thereto as possible----"

"I wish to goodness we hadn't put it in," said Daphne.

"It's done now," said her husband, "and we'd better get ready. I'll turn them down in the library, you can stand behind the what-not in the drawing-room and fire them from there, and Boy'd better go down the queue with some oranges and a megaphone, and keep on saying we're suited right up to the last."

In silence I turned to the sideboard. It was with something of an effort that I helped myself to a thick slab of bacon which was obviously but half-cooked. From the bottom of a second dish a black and white egg, with a pale green yoke, eyed me with a cold stare. With a shudder I covered it up again.... After all, we did want a cook, and if we were bombarded with applications for the post, the probability of getting a good one was the more certain.

As I took my seat--

"Is Katharine's advertisement in?" I asked.

My sister nodded.

"She's put her telephone number, too."

"Has she? She will be mad when she sees we've had the same idea."

"Ah," said Berry. "I'd forgotten the telephone. That's another vulnerable spot. I shouldn't wonder if----"

The sentence was never finished.

The hurried stammer of the telephone bell made a dramatic irruption, and Jill, who was in the act of drinking, choked with excitement.

In silence we listened, to be quite sure. A second prolonged vibration left no room for doubt.

"They're off," said Berry.

"I--I feel quite nervous," said Daphne. "Let Falcon answer it."

But Jill was already at the door....

Breathlessly we awaited her return.

Nobby, apparently affected by the electricity with which the air was charged, started to relieve his feelings by barking stormily. The nervous outburst of reproof which greeted his eloquence was so unexpectedly menacing that he retired precipitately beneath the table, his small white tail clapped incontinently between his legs.

The next moment Jill tore into the room.

"It's a cook!" she cried in a tempestuous whisper. "It's a cook! She wants to speak to Daphne. It's a trunk call. She's rung up from Torquay."

"Torquay!" I cried aghast. "Good Heavens!"

"What did I say?" said Berry. My sister rose in some trepidation. "Two hundred miles is nothing. Have another hunk of toast. It was only made on Sunday, so I can recommend it."

Daphne hastened from the room, with Jill twittering at her heels, and in some dudgeon I cut myself a slice of bread.

Berry turned his attention to the Sealyham.

"Nobby, my lad, come here."

Signifying his delight at this restoration to favour by an unusually elaborate rotatory movement of his tail, the terrier emerged from his cover and humbled himself at his patron's feet. The latter picked him up and set him upon his knee.

"My lad," he said, "this is going to be a momentous day. Cooks, meet to be bitten, are due to arrive in myriads. Be ruthless. Spare neither the matron nor the maid. What did Mr. Henry say in 1415?--

This day is call'd the feast of Sealyham: She that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will sit with caution when this day is named. And shudder at the name of Sealyham. She that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the razzle feast her neighbours, And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Sealyham': Then will she strip her hose and show her scars, And say, 'These wounds I had on Nobby's day.' Old cooks forget; yet all shall be forgot, But she'll remember with a flood of talk What feats you did that day."

Nobby licked his face enthusiastically.

Then came a swift rush across the hall, and Daphne and Jill pelted into the room.

"She's coming up for an interview to-morrow," panted the latter. "Six years in her last place, but the people are going abroad. If we engage her, she can come on Monday. Sixty pounds a year."

Daphne was beaming.

"I must say I liked the sound of her. Very respectful she seemed. Her name's rather unusual, but that isn't her fault. Pauline Roper. I fancy she's by way of being an expert. She's got a certificate from some institute of cookery, and her sister's a trained nurse in Welbeck Street. That's why she wants to be in London. What's the return fare from Torquay?" she added. "I said I'd pay it, if I took up her reference."

"Oh, something under five pounds," said Berry.

"What!"

"My dear," said her husband, "if the expenditure of that sum were to ensure me a breakfast the very sight of which did not make my gorge rise, I should regard it as a trustee investment."

Reference to a time-table showed that the price of Pauline Roper's ticket would be two pounds nine shillings and fourpence halfpenny.

Somewhat to our surprise and greatly to our relief, the day passed without another application for the post of cook, personal or otherwise.

To celebrate the solitary but promising response to our S.O.S. signal, and the prospect which it afforded of an early deliverance from our state, we dined at the _Berkeley_ and went to the play.

On returning home we found a telegram in the hall. It had been handed in at Paris, and ran as follows:

_Cook called Camille François leaving for Cholmondeley Street to-morrow aaa can speak no English so must be met at Dover aaa boat due 4.15 aaa Jonah._

* * * * *

The train roared through Ashford, and Berry looked at his watch. Then he sighed profoundly and began to commune with himself in a low tone.

"_Mille pardons, madame. Mais vous êtes Camille François? Non? Quel dommage! Dix mille pardons. Adieu._ ... Deuce of a lot of 'milles,' aren't there? I wonder if there'll be many passengers. And will she come first-class, or before the mast? You know, this is a wild mare's chest, and that's all there is to it. We shall insult several hundred women, miss the cook, and probably lose Pauline into the bargain. What did I come for?"

"Nonsense," said Jill stoutly. "Jonah's told her to look out for us."

"I'll bet he never thought I should be fool enough to roll up, so she won't expect me. As a matter of fact, if he's described any one, he's probably drawn a lifelike word-picture of Daphne."

"It's no good worrying," said I. "The only thing to do is to address every woman who looks in the least like a cook as she steps off the gangway. When we do strike her, Jill can carry on."

"It's all very well," said Berry, "but what does a cook look like, or look least like, or least look like? I suppose you know what you mean." Jill began to shake with laughter. "She'll probably be all dressed up to give us a treat, and, for all we know, she may have a child with her, and, if she's pretty, it's a hundred to one some fellow will be seeing her off the boat. You can't rule out any one. And to accost strange women indiscriminately is simply asking for trouble. Understand this: when I've been knocked down twice, you can count me out."

This was too much for Jill, who made no further efforts to restrain her merriment. Fixing her with a sorrowful look, my brother-in-law sank back in his corner with a resigned air.

Jonah's telegram had certainly complicated matters.

We had received it too late to prevent the dispatch of the cook whose services he had apparently enlisted. After a prolonged discussion we had decided that, while Daphne must stay and interview Pauline Roper, the rest of us had better proceed to Dover with the object of meeting the boat. It was obvious that Jill must go to deal with the immigrant when the latter had been identified, but she could not be expected to effect the identification. I was unanimously chosen for this responsible task, but I refused point-blank to make the attempt single-handed. I argued with reason that it was more than one man could do, and that the performance of what was, after all, a highly delicate operation must be shared by Berry. After a titanic struggle the latter gave in, with the result that Jill and he and I had left London by the eleven o'clock train. This was due to arrive at Dover at two minutes to one, so that we should have time for lunch and to spare before the boat came in.

But that was not all.

The coming of Jonah's _protégée_ made it impossible for my sister to engage Pauline Roper out of hand. Of course the latter might prove impossible, which, in a way, would simplify the position. If, as was more probable, she seemed desirable, the only thing to do was to pay her fare and promise to let her know within twenty-four hours whether we would engage her or not. That would give us time to discover whether Camille François was the more promising of the two.

Whatever happened, it was painfully clear that our engagement of a cook was going to prove one of the most costly adventures of its kind upon which we had ever embarked.

The train steamed into Dover one minute before its scheduled time, and we immediately repaired to the Lord Warden Hotel.

Lunch was followed by a comfortable half-hour in the lounge, after which we decided to take the air until the arrival of the packet.

Perhaps the most famous of the gates of England, Dover has always worn a warlike mien. Less formidable than renowned Gibraltar, there is a look of grim efficiency about her heights, an air of masked authority about the windy galleries hung in her cold grey chalk, something of Roman competence about the proud old gatehouse on the Castle Hill. Never in mufti, never in gaudy uniform, Dover is always clad in "service" dress. A thousand threats have made her porterage a downright office, bluntly performed. And so those four lean years, that whipped the smile from many an English hundred, seem to have passed over the grizzled Gate like the east wind, leaving it scatheless. About herself no change was visible. As we leaned easily upon the giant parapet of the Admiralty Pier, watching the tireless waves dance to the _cappriccio_ of wind and sun, there was but little evidence to show that the portcullis, recently hoist, had for four years been down. Under the shadow of the Shakespeare Cliff the busy traffic of impatient Peace fretted as heretofore. The bristling sentinels were gone: no craft sang through the empty air: no desperate call for labour wearied tired eyes, clawed at strained nerves, hastened the scurrying feet: no longer from across the Straits came flickering the ceaseless grunt and grumble of the guns. The wondrous tales of nets, of passages of arms, of sallies made at dawn--mortal immortal exploits--seemed to be chronicles of another age. The ways and means of War, so lately paramount, were out of sight. As in the days before, the march of Trade and caravan of Pleasure jostled each other in the Gate's mouth. Only the soldierly aspect of the place remained--Might in a faded surcoat, her shabby scabbard hiding a loose bright blade....

The steamer was up to time.

When four o'clock came she was well in sight, and at fourteen minutes past the hour the rattle of the donkey-engine came to a sudden stop, and a moment later the gangways were thrust and hauled into their respective positions.

Berry and I stood as close to the actual points of disembarkation as convenience and discretion allowed, while Jill hovered excitedly in the background.

As the passengers began to descend--

"Now for it," said my brother-in-law, settling his hat upon his head. "I feel extremely nervous and more ill at ease than I can ever remember. My mind is a seething blank, and I think my left sock-suspender is coming down. However ... Of course, it is beginning to be forcibly what they call 'borne in upon' me that we ought to have brought some barbed wire and a turnstile. As it is, we shall miss about two-thirds of them. Here's your chance," he added, nodding at a stout lady with a green suit-case and a defiant glare. "I'll take the jug and bottle department."

I had just time to see that the object of his irreverence was an angular female with a brown paper parcel and a tumbler, when my quarry gained _terra firma_ and started in the direction of the train.

I raised my hat.

"_Pardon, madame. Mais vous êtes Camille_----"

"Reeang," was the discomfiting reply. "Par de baggarge."

I realized that an offer which I had not made had been rejected, and that the speaker was not of French descent.

The sting of the rebuff was greatly tempered by the reception with which Berry's advances were met.

I was too late to hear what he had said, but the resentment which his attempt had provoked was disconcertingly obvious.

After fixing my brother-in-law with a freezing stare, his addressee turned as from an offensive odour and invested the one word she thought fit to employ with an essence of loathing which was terrible to hear.

"Disgusting!"

Berry shook his head.

"The right word," he said, "was 'monstrous.'"

He turned to accost a quiet-looking girl wearing an oil-silk gaberdine and very clearly born upon the opposite side of the Channel.

With a sigh, I addressed myself to a widow with a small boy clad in a _pélérine_. To my embarrassment she proved to be deaf, but when I had stumblingly repeated my absurd interrogation, she denied the impeachment with a charming smile. During our exchange of courtesies the child stood staring at me with a finger deep in his mouth. At their conclusion he withdrew this and pointed it directly at my chin.

"_Pourquoi s'est-il coupé, maman?_" he demanded in a piercing treble.

The question was appropriate, but unanswerable.

His mother lugged him incontinently away.

Berry was confronting one of the largest ladies I have ever seen. As he began to speak, she interrupted him.

"_Vous êtes Meestair Baxtair, n'est-ce pas? Ah, c'est bien ça. J'avais si peur de ne pas vous trouver. Mais maintenant je suis tranquille. Mon mari me suit. Ah, le voilà!_" She turned about, the better to beckon to a huge man with two bags and a hold-all. "_Pierre! Pierre_!"

Beneath the avalanche of good-will Berry stood paralysed.

Recognizing that something must be done, I sought to interfere.

"Leave me alone," said Berry weakly. "I've--I've got off."

It took all my energy and most of my French to convince his _vis-à-vis_ that she was mistaken.

During the interlude about fifteen "possibles" escaped us.

I threw a despairing glance in Jill's direction, wiped the sweat from my brow, and returned to the attack.

After four more failures my nerve began to go. Miserably I turned to my brother-in-law.

He was in the act of addressing a smart-looking girl in black, bearing a brand-new valise and some wilting roses.

Before she had had time to appreciate his inquiry there was a choking yell from the gangway, and a very dark gentleman, with an Italian cast of countenance, thrust his explosive way on to the pier.

My knowledge of his native tongue was limited to _carissimo, spaghetti_, and one or two musical directions, but from the vehemence of his tone and the violence of his dramatic gestures it was plain that the torrent which foamed from his lips was both menacing and abusive. From the shape of the case which he was clutching beneath his left arm, I judged him to be an exponent of the guitar.

Advancing his nose to within an inch and a half of Berry's chin he blared and raved like a maniac, alternately pointing to his shrinking _protegée_ and indicating the blue vault of heaven with frightful emphasis.

Berry regarded him unperturbed. As he paused for breath--

"In answer to your observations," he said, "I can only say that I am not a Mormon and have absolutely no connection with Salt Lake City. I may add that, if you are partial to garlic, it is a taste which I have never acquired. In conclusion, I hope that, before you reach the platform for which you are apparently making, you will stumble over one of the ridiculously large rings with which the quay is so generously provided, and will not only suffer the most hideous agony, but remain permanently lame as a result of your carelessness."

The calm dignity with which he delivered this speech had an almost magical effect upon the jealous Latin. His bluster sank suddenly and died. Muttering to himself and staring at Berry as at a wizard, he seized the girl by the arm and started to move rapidly away, wide-eyed and ill at ease.... With suppressed excitement and the tail of my eye, I watched him bear down upon one of the stumbling-blocks to which Berry had referred. The accuracy with which he approached it was almost uncanny. I found myself standing upon one leg.... The screech of anguish with which he hailed the collision, no less than the precipitancy with which he dropped the guitar, sat down and began to rock himself to and fro, was irresistibly gratifying.

The muscles about Berry's mouth twitched.

"So perish all traitors," he said. "And now I don't know how you feel, but I've had about enough of this. My nerves aren't what they were. Something may snap any minute."

With one accord we proceeded to rejoin Jill, who had been witnessing our humiliations from a safe distance, and was dabbing her grey eyes with a ridiculous handkerchief.

As we came up, she started forward and pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the boat. Berry and I swung on our heels.

Looking very well, Jonah was descending the gangway with a bored air.

My brother-in-law and I stared at him as at one risen from the dead. Almost at once he saw us and waved airily.... A moment later he limped to where we were standing and kissed his sister.

"I had an idea some of you'd turn up," he said coolly.

Berry turned to me.

"You hear?" he said grimly. "He had an idea some of us'd turn up. An idea ... I suppose a little bird told him. Oh, take me away, somebody, and let me die. Let me have one last imitation meal, and die. Where do they sell wild oats?"

Jonah disregarded the interruption.

"At the last moment," he said calmly, "I felt there might be some mix-up, so I came along too." He turned and nodded at a nervous little man who was standing self-consciously a few paces away and, as I now observed for the first time, carrying my cousin's dressing-case. "That," he added, "is Camille."

His momentous announcement rendered us speechless. At length--

"You--you mean to say," I gasped, "that--that it's a man?"

Jonah shrugged his shoulders.

"Look at his trousers," he said.

"But--but of course we expected a woman," cried Jill in a choking voice. "We can't have a _chef_."

"Nothing," said Jonah, "was said about sex."

Berry spoke in a voice shaken with emotion.

"A man," he said. "A he-cook, called 'Camille.' And it actually occurred to you that 'there might be some mix-up.' You know, your intuition is positively supernatural. And it is for this," he added bitterly, "that I have dissipated in ten crowded minutes a reputation which it has taken years to amass. It is for this that I have deliberately insulted several respectable ladies, jeopardized the _Entente Cordiale_, and invited personal violence of a most unpleasant character. To do this I shall have travelled about a hundred and fifty miles, with the shade temperature at ninety, and lost what would have been an undoubtedly pleasant and possibly extremely fruitful day at Sandown Park. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't touch you for worlds. You're being reserved for some very special form of dissolution, you are. She-bears, or something. I should avoid woods, any way. And now I'm going home. To-morrow I shall start on a walking tour, with a spare sock and some milk chocolate, and try to forget. If that fails, I shall take the snail--I mean the veil."

He turned on his heel and stalked haughtily in the direction of the boat train.

Gurgling with merriment, Jill laid a hand on my arm.

"Daphne will simply scream," she said.

"If this little stunt has cost us Pauline," said I, "she won't leave it at that."

We turned to follow my brother-in-law.

Jonah beckoned to Camille.

"_Venez. Restez près de moi,_" he said.

On arriving at Charing Cross we left Jonah and the cook to weather the Customs, and drove straight to Cholmondeley Street.

As we entered the hall, my sister came flying out of the library.

"Hello," she cried, "where's the cook? Don't say----"

Berry uncovered.

"_Pardon, madame,_" he said, "_mais vous êtes Camille Franç_----That's your cue. Now you say 'Serwine!' Just like that. 'Serwine!' Put all the loathing you can into it--you'll find it can hold quite a lot--and fix me with a glassy eye. Then I blench and break out Into a cold sweat. Oh, it's a great game."

"Poor old chap," said Daphne. "It must have been awful. But haven't you got her?"

"It's a he!" cried Jill, squeaking with excitement. "It's a he. Jonah's bringing him----"

"A _what_?" said my sister, taking a pace backward.

"A male," said I. "You know. Like Nobby. Separate legs, and shaves on Thursdays."

"Do you mean to say that it's a _chef_?"

I nodded.

My sister collapsed into a convenient chair and closed her eyes. Presently she began to shake with laughter.

"It is droll, isn't it?" said Berry. "People wouldn't believe it. Fancy travelling a hundred and fifty miles to molest a lot of strange women, and then finding that for all the good you've done you might as well have spent the day advertising for 'The Lost Chord.'"

My sister pulled herself together.

"Thank goodness, I had the sense to engage Pauline," she announced. "Something told me I'd better. But I waited before taking up her reference, on the off-chance of this one being a marvel. Where is the wretched man?"

"Jonah fetched up with him. He's stayed behind because of the Customs. They ought to be here any minute."

"Well, there's no place for him to sleep here," said Daphne. "Fitch will have to look after him for tonight, and to-morrow he'll have to go back."

Berry looked at his watch.

"Five past seven," he said. "As the blighter's here, why not let him sub-edit the dinner to-night? It'll shorten his life, but it may save ours. You never know."

My sister hesitated. Then--

"He'll never do it," she said. "I can suggest it, but, if he's anything of a cook, he'll go off the deep end at once."

"And give notice," said I. "Well, that's exactly what we want. Then we shan't have to fire him. He can just push off quietly to-morrow, Pauline will roll up on Monday, and everything will be lovely in the garden."

"That's it," said Berry. "If he consents, well and good. If he declines, so much the better. It's a blinkin' certainty. Whichever happens, we can't lose."

"All right," said Daphne. "I shall make Jonah tell him."

It took Jonah and M. François longer to satisfy the officers of His Majesty's Customs and Excise than we had anticipated, and I had consumed a much-needed whisky and soda and was on the way to the bathroom when I heard them arrive.

Before I had completed a leisurely toilet, it was all over.

As we waited in the lounge of the _Carlton_ Grill for a table, which we had been too late to reserve, my sister related the circumstances which had led to the _débâcle_.

"The wretched little man didn't seem to take to the idea of starting in right away, but I explained that he needn't do any more than just run his eye over the _menu_, and that, as they were going to have the same dinner in the servants' hall, it really only amounted to looking after his own food.

"Then I sent for Falcon, explained things, and told him to look after the man this evening, and that I was making arrangements for him to stay with Fitch over the garage. Then I had Mrs. Chapel up."

"That, I take it," said Berry, "is the nymph lately responsible for the preparation of our food?"

Daphne nodded.

"I told her about François, and that, as he was here, he would help her with dinner to-night. I said he was very clever, and all that sort of thing, and that I wanted her to show him what she was cooking, and listen to any suggestions he had to make."

"I suppose you added that he couldn't speak a word of English," said her husband.

"Be quiet," said Daphne. "Besides, he can. Several words. Any way, she didn't seem over-pleased, but, as Pauline's coming on Monday, that didn't worry me. So I sent her away, and rang up Fitch and told him he must fix the Frenchman up for the night."

"Did he seem over-pleased?"

"I didn't wait to hear. I just rang off quick. Then I went up to dress. The next thing I knew was that they'd tried to murder each other, and that Camille had bitten William, and Nobby'd bitten Camille. I don't suppose we shall ever know exactly what happened."

So far as we had been able to gather from the butler, who had immediately repaired to Daphne's room for instructions, and was labouring under great excitement, my sister's orders had been but grudgingly obeyed. Mrs. Chapel had been ill-tempered and obstructive, and had made no attempt to disguise her suspicion of the _chef_. The latter had consequently determined to be as nasty as the circumstances allowed, had eyed her preparations for dinner with a marked contempt, and had communed visibly and audibly with himself in a manner which it was impossible to mistake. Finally he had desired to taste the soup which she was cooking. Poor as his English was, his meaning was apparent, but the charwoman had affected an utter inability to understand what he said. This had so much incensed the Frenchman that the other servants had intervened and insisted on Mrs. Chapel's compliance with his request. With an ill grace she snatched the lid from the saucepan....

Everything was now in train for a frightful explosion. In bitterness the fuse had been laid, the charge of passion was tamped, the detonator of spleen was in position. Only a match was necessary....

Camille François, however, preferred to employ a torch.

After allowing the fluid to cool, the Frenchman--by this time the cynosure of sixteen vigilant eyes--introduced a teaspoonful into his mouth....

The most sanguine member of his audience was hardly expecting him to commend the beverage. Mrs. Chapel herself must have felt instinctively that no man born of woman would in the circumstances renounce such a magnificent opportunity of "getting back." Nobody, however, was apparently prepared for so vigorous and dramatic an appreciation of the dainty.

For the space of two seconds the _chef_ held it cupped in his mouth. Then with an expression of deadly loathing, intensified by a horrible squint, he expelled the liquid on to the kitchen floor. Ignoring the gasp which greeted his action, he was observed to shrug his shoulders.

"I veep my eyes," he announced, "for ze pore pig."

Here the steady flood of the butler's narrative became excusably broken into the incoherence of rapids and the decent reticence of disappearing falls. Beyond the fact that Mrs. Chapel had swung twice to the jaw, and that Camille had replied with an ineffectual kick before they were dragged screaming apart, few details of the state of pandemonium that ensued came to our ears. I imagine that a striking _tableau vivant_ somewhat on the lines of Meissonier's famous painting was unconsciously improvised. That three maids hardly restrained Mrs. Chapel, that the footman who sought to withhold Camille was bitten for his pains by the now ravening Frenchman, that the latter was only saved from the commission of a still more aggravated assault by the timely arrival of the butler, that Nobby, attracted by the uproar, contributed to the confusion first by barking like a demoniac and then by inflicting a punctured wound upon the calf of the alien's leg, we learned more by inference and deduction than by direct report. That our impending meal would be more than usually unappetizing was never suggested. That was surmise upon our part, pure and simple. The conviction, however, was so strong that the repast was cancelled out of hand.

Mrs. Chapel was dismissed and straitly charged never to return. Camille was placed in the custody of the chauffeur and escorted to the latter's rooms above the garage, to be returned to France upon the following morning. Nobby was commended for his discrimination. Jonah was reviled.

All this, however, took time. The respective dismissal and disposal of the combatants were not completed until long past eight, and it was almost nine before we sat down to dinner.

"I think," said Daphne faintly, "I should like some champagne."

Berry ordered the wine.

It was abnormally hot, and the doors that were usually closed were set wide open.

From the street faint snatches of a vibrant soprano came knocking at our tired ears.

Mechanically we listened.

"_When you come to the end of a perfect day...."_

Berry turned to me.

"They must have seen us come in," he said.

* * * * *

It was with a grateful heart that I telegraphed the first thing on Saturday morning to Mrs. Hamilton Smythe of Fair Lawns, Torquay, asking _pro forma,_ whether Pauline Roper, now in her service, was sober, honest and generally to be recommended to be engaged as cook.

As she had been for six years with the lady, and was only leaving because the latter was quitting England to join her husband in Ceylon, it was improbable that the reference would be unflattering. Moreover, Daphne had taken to her at once. Well-mannered, quiet, decently attired and respectful, she was obviously a long way superior to the ordinary maid. Indeed, she had admitted that her father, now dead, had been a clergyman, and that she should have endeavoured to obtain a position as governess if, as a child, she had received anything better than the rudest education. She had, she added, been receiving fifty pounds a year. Hesitatingly she had inquired whether, since the employment was only temporary, we should consider an increase of ten pounds a year unreasonable.

"Altogether," concluded my sister, "a thoroughly nice-feeling woman. I offered her lunch, but she said she was anxious to try and see her sister before she caught her train back, so she didn't have any. I almost forgot to give her her fare, poor girl. In fact, she had to remind me. She apologized very humbly, but said the journey to London was so terribly expensive that she simply couldn't afford to let it stand over."

We had lunched at Ranelagh, and were sitting in a quiet corner of the pleasant grounds, taking our ease after the alarms and excursions of the day before.

Later on we made our way to the polo-ground.

Almost the first person we saw was Katharine Festival.

"Hurray," said Daphne. "I meant to have rung her up last night, but what with the Camille episode and dining out I forgot all about it. When I tell her we're suited, she'll be green with envy."

Her unsuspecting victim advanced beaming. Being of the opposite sex, I felt sorry for her.

"Daphne, my dear," she announced, "I meant to have rung you up last night. I've got a cook."

The pendulum of my emotions described the best part of a semicircle, and I felt sorry for Daphne.

"I am glad," said my sister, with an audacity which took my breath away. "How splendid! So've we."

"Hurray," said Katharine, with a sincerity which would have deceived a diplomat. "Don't you feel quite strange? I can hardly believe it's really happened. Mine rejoices in the name of Pauline," she added.

I started violently, and Berry's jaw dropped.

"_Pauline?_" cried Daphne and Jill.

"Yes," said Katharine. "It's a queer name for a cook, but----What's the matter?"

"But so's ours! Ours is Pauline! What's her other name?"

"Roper," cried Katharine breathlessly.

"Not from Torquay?"--in a choking voice.

Katharine nodded and put a trembling handkerchief to her lips.

"I paid her fare," she said faintly. "It came to----"

"Two pounds nine and four pence halfpenny," said my sister. "I gave her two pounds ten."

"So did I," said Katharine. "She was to come on--on Monday."

"Six years in her last place?" said Daphne shakily

"Yes. And a clergyman's daughter," wailed Katharine.

"Did--did you take up her reference?"

"Wired last night," was the reply.

In silence I brought two chairs, and they sat down.

"But--but," stammered Jill, "she spoke from Torquay on Wednesday."

"Did she?" said Berry. "I wonder."

"Yes," said Katharine. "She did."

"You know she did," said Daphne and Jill.

"Who," said I, "answered the telephone?"

"My parlourmaid did," said Katharine.

"And Jill answered ours," said I. Then I turned to my cousin. "When you took off the receiver," I asked, "what did you hear?"

"I remember perfectly," said Jill. "Exchange asked if we were Mayfair 9999 and then said, 'You're through to a call-office.' Then Pauline spoke."

"Precisely," said I. "But not from Torquay. In that case Exchange would have said, 'Torquay wants you,' or 'Exeter,' or something. Our Pauline rang up from London. She took a risk and got away with it."

"I feel dazed," said Daphne, putting a hand to her head. "There must be some mistake. I can't believe----"

"'A thoroughly nice-feeling woman,'" said Berry. "I think I should feel nice if I could make five pounds in two hours by sitting on the edge of a chair and saying I was a clergyman's daughter. And now what are we going to do? Shall we be funny and inform the police? Or try and stop Camille at Amiens?"

"Now, don't you start," said his wife, "because I can't bear it. Jonah, for goodness' sake, get hold of the car, and let's go."

"Yes," said Berry. "And look sharp about it. Time's getting on, and I should just hate to be late for dinner. Or shall we be reckless and take a table at Lockhart's?"

We drove home in a state of profound melancholy.

Awaiting our arrival was a "service" communication upon a buff sheet, bluntly addressed to "Pleydell."

It was the official death-warrant of an unworthy trust.

_Sir,_

_I beg leave to inform you that your telegram handed in at the Grosvenor Street Post Office at 10.2 a.m. on the 26th June addressed to Reply paid Hamilton Smythe Fair Lawns Torquay has not been delivered for the reason indicated below._

_ADDRESS NOT KNOWN._

_I am, Sir,_

_Your obedient Servant,_

_W.B.,_

_Postmaster._