"partook of that meal, and she was not going
to roast herself before the fire for them." So
the dinners were handed over to be exclusively
cared for by Mrs. Penmore's cordon-bleu.

It was the practice of Miss Carrington at
times entirely to ignore the deficiencies of the
servant-of-all-work, and to act upon a
preconceived idea that there was a professed cook in
the house. Thus she would send for Gabrielle
in the morning, and, saying that she felt
rather poorly just then, would ask it as a favour
that the dinner might be one tolerably suited to
a delicate stomach. "I don't want anything
very wonderful," she would say; "a little clear
soup, a croquette, and some game, I really feel
as if that would do me good, and as if there was
nothing else that I could eat." Then would Mrs.
Penmore descend into the lower regions, and
would herself—for it got to that at last—
attempt, with the aid of a cookery-book, and with
Charlotte to do the rough work, the compilation
of the delicacies demanded by her guest. But
the cookery-book bewildered instead of helping
her, and left so much unsaid, besides saying so
much that was unintelligible, that poor Gabrielle
was at times almost inclined, in her desperation,
to go off in search of the author, to put a few
questions to him or her on matters left
unexplained in the text. And then this cookery-
book seemed to expect that those who consulted
it were to be possessed of such enormous wealth.
The author thought nothing of directing you to
"take the breasts of five partridges," to form
only one ingredient in a dish which would also
require "the yolks of twelve plover's eggs, a
handful of truffles," and sundry other delicacies
equally costly; whilst as to the amount of chicken-
broth and of beef-stock which you must have by
you before you even attempted a clear soup,
that alone implied a princely income. Also, the
book expected too much knowledge in the reader,
and took it for granted that he was acquainted
with things of which, in the present case at any
rate, "the reader" was totally ignorant.

The consequence of all this was, that our
inexperienced little housewife was fain to make
the most hazardous compromises in obeying the
instructions put before her. Any particular
process which she could not understand she
omitted. Any peculiarly extravagant element
in the composition with which she was engaged
she left out, or administered homœopathically;
while those ingredients which were within
the reach of her small means would be enforced
with such undue emphasis as to interfere sadly
with the harmony of the whole. As to appealing
to Charlotte for advice in any of these
difficulties, that was leaning upon a broken reed
with a vengeance.

"Look here, Charlotte," the poor lady would
say, helplessly, "they tell us to 'take a table-
spoonful of Sauce No. 2, see page 16,' and then
a 'tea-spoonful of Sauce No. 8,' see some other
page, but what are we to do if we haven't got
them?"

"I'm sure I don't know, mum."

"Do you think you could make No. 2
while I prepare the rest? Let us see: 'It is
best to prepare this sauce in rather a large
quantity, so that you may have it by you. Take
a bottle of the best claret wine and pour it over
half a dozen trussed ortolans, which you will
have ready in the bottom of a saucepan; add
the juice of two limes—be particular that they
are not large ones—and a handful of pistaccio-
nuts tied up in a bag. Then grate a nutmeg
over the whole, but in this (as a little more or
less than the right amount will spoil the sauce)
you must be guided by your own discretion——'"

"Oh, if you please, mum, I'd rather not try
that."

"No, I should think not, Charlotte. I'm
afraid we must give that up altogether. But
the worst of it is, that they all seem one as
impossible as another, and so expensive. What
are we to do?"

"I'm sure I don't know, mum."

"Well, I suppose we must do as well as we
can." And then commenced the system of
compromises spoken of above.

But the great canons of art are not to be
thus lightly trifled with. When the dishes
which had been prepared in so unprincipled a
manner came to table, they were apt to be
entirely wanting in flavour, and to present an
ugly and unappetising appearance to the eye.
Now, Miss Carrington was not the person to eat
what was set before her and make no complaint;
far from it. One of two results invariably
attended these culinary failures; either Miss
Carrington viewed the meal at which she was
assisting in a ludicrous point of view, and lashed
the different dishes, so to speak, with sarcasms;
or she declined to eat at all, and assumed the
airs of a martyr who is being gradually starved
to death.

"Why, what on earth is this?" she would
say, after turning the contents of her plate over
for some time with her fork. It was in this
case a dish of Gabrielle's own invention, a mince
up of veal and ham enclosed in batter, like
fritters, and fried. Poor thing, how she had
thought over it in the night, and determined to
make it a chef-d'œuvre.

"Is it fish?" inquired Miss Carrington,
innocently.

Gabrielle mentioned the nature of the
composition, and felt wounded to the core.

"I'm sure it's exceedingly nice," remarked
Gilbert, who always stood by his dear West
Indian.

"Do you know, it really is rather nice,"
observed Miss Carrington, in a patronising tone.
And she actually managed to eat a little bit,
leaving half a plateful untouched, of course.

Penmore, in a somewhat vindictive spirit,
called for the dish again, and helped himself
freely.

"I'm afraid you don't like it," said Gabrielle,
addressing her guest.

"Oh, on the contrary, I assure you it's quite
nice. You seem to like it, at any rate, Gilbert,"
she said, addressing her cousin.