She
jeeringly asserted that she, the cook, got $2 a week more than she, the
housekeeper, did. As every one knows that the housekeeper has $5 a week,
I am holding this evidence against the time when Mary asks for a lump
sum adequate to her deserts. The number of things which Mary can make
out of everything and out of nothing is wonderful; and I am fully
persuaded that all the moneys paid to a really good cook are moneys put
into the bank. I often make trips to the kitchen to tell Mary that "the
dinner was great," or that "Mrs. Kyrle wants the receipt for that
pudding," or that "my friend Kyrle asks if he may see you make a salad
dressing;" but "don't do it, Mary; let the secret die with you." The
cook cackles, like the guinea-hen that she is, but the dishes are none
the worse for the commendation.
The laundress is just a washerwoman, so far as I know. She undoubtedly
changes with the seasons, but I do not see her, though the clothes are
always bleaching on the grass at the back of the house.
The maids are as changeable as old-fashioned silk.
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