"
"Tell her to come to me here," Feather said. "And I--I want a cup
of beef tea."
"Yes, ma'am," with entire respect. And the door closed quietly
behind him.
It was not long before it was opened again. "Cook" had knocked and
Feather had told her to come in. Most cooks are stout, but this
one was not. She was a thin, tall woman with square shoulders and
a square face somewhat reddened by constant proximity to fires.
She had been trained at a cooking school. She carried a pile of
small account books but she brought nothing else.
"I wanted some beef tea, Cook," said Feather protestingly.
"There is no beef tea, ma'am," said Cook. "There is neither beef,
nor stock, nor Liebig in the house."
"Why--why not?" stammered Feather and she stammered because even
her lack of perception saw something in the woman's face which
was new to her. It was a sort of finality.
She held out the pile of small books.
"Here are the books, ma'am," was her explanation. "Perhaps as you
don't like to be troubled with such things, you don't know how
far behind they are. Nothing has been paid for months. It's been
an every-day fight to get the things that was wanted. It's not
an agreeable thing for a cook to have to struggle and plead. I've
had to do it because I had my reputation to think of and I couldn't
send up rubbish when there was company."
Feather felt herself growing pale as she sat and stared at her.
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