It was Cicely's custom to spend the brief time she allowed herself
between breakfast and work, upon the lawn, or somewhere out of doors,
but to-day Ralph searched in vain for her. He met La Fleur, however,
and that conscientious cook, in her most respectful manner, asked him,
if he happened to meet Miss Cicely, would he be so good as to give her
a message?
"But I don't know where she is," said Ralph. "I have a letter to
show her."
La Fleur wished very much to know what was in the letter, which, she
supposed, explained the mystery of the telegrams, but at a moment like
this she would not ask.
"She is in the garden, sir," she said. "I asked her to gather me some
lettuce for luncheon. She does it so much more nicely than I could do it,
or Mike. She selects the crispest and most tender leaves of that crimped
and curled lettuce you all like so much, and I thought I would ask you,
sir, if you met her, to be so very kind as to tell her that I would like
a few sprigs of parsley, just a very few. I would go myself, sir, but
there is something cooking which I cannot leave, and I beg your pardon
for troubling you and will thank you, sir, very much if you--"
It was not worth while for her to finish her sentence, for Ralph had
gone.
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