"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 _aperitif_?"

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 pa.s.sed 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 p.r.o.nounced.

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 advertis.e.m.e.nt calculated to allure the most suspicious and _blasee_ 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 n.o.bby, who lay at inelegant ease supine between us. Perched upon the arm of a deep armchair, my sister was subjecting the s.p.a.ce 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 appet.i.te by the nauseating reek from the shock of whose a.s.sault 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt, 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.