Perhaps she, too, was living on eggs
and it had warped her better nature.
'I suppose you can cook all right?' I asked Elizabeth as ten minutes
later, all arrangements made, I accompanied her to the door.
'Me? I'm a rare 'and at cookin'. My friend's 'usband ses 'e's never
come across any one who can cook a steak like I can.'
'A steak,' I murmured ecstatically, 'richly brown with softly swelling
curves----'
'Rather underdone in the middle,' supplemented Elizabeth, 'just a
little bit o' fat, fairly crisp, a lump o' butter on the top, and I
always 'old that a dash o' fried onion improves the flavour.'
'How beautiful,' I murmured again. It sounded like a poem. Swinburne
or de Musset have never stirred me so deeply as did that simple
recitation.
Elizabeth, seeing that she had an attentive audience, continued, 'Take
roast pork, now. Well, I always say there's a lot in the cookin' o'
that, with crisp cracklin', apple sauce an' stuffin'-----'
'Don't go on,' I, broke in, feeling in my weakened state, unable to
stand any more. Tears that men weep had risen to my eyes. 'Promise,'
I said, taking her toil-worn hand, 'that you will come to-morrow.'
'Right-o,' said Elizabeth, and her lank form disappeared in the
darkness. I staggered into the dining-room. Henry was sitting at the
disordered dinner table jotting down notes. At any other time this
would have irritated me, because I knew it was a preliminary to his
remark that as he had an article to write which must be finished that
evening he would not be able to help me with the washing-up.
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