'Dearest,' I whispered, 'it seems as though all the bitterness
and misunderstanding between you and me is to be swept away at last.
She can cook steaks, dear--juicy steaks, pork with crackling----'
'Sage and onion stuffing?' burst in a hoarse murmur from Henry.
'Yes, and large mutton chops, rich in fat----'
'Dearest, how splendid,' whispered Henry. Our lips met in ecstacy.
That evening was one of the happiest we have ever spent. Henry and I
sat together on the divan and looked at the cookery-book. There was no
doubt about it. Henry said, that Mrs. Beeton was a wonderful woman.
We felt that she and Mr. Beeton must have been tremendously happy in
their married life.
[Illustration: Henry and I looked at the Cookery Book.]
The illustrations to the book delighted us, too, with their bold
outlines, vigorous colouring, and, attention to detail. Henry and I
rather favour the impressionist school in art, but when you're admiring
a picture of salmon mayonnaise it refreshes you to distinguish the
ingredients.
Elizabeth arrived the next day, bringing with her a small--perplexingly
small--brown paper parcel. The rest of her luggage, she said, was on
the way. It remained on the way so long that I finally got uneasy and
began to question her about it. She did not seem so disturbed at the
prospect of its being lost as I did. At last, when I declared my
intention of writing Carter Paterson's about it on her behalf, she
confessed.
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