a mouthful, even saving the crusts she cut from the toast to grind
for breading and doing all the thrifty things one would do oneself, but
which no cook ever born is expected to do nowadays. She had lived some
years in Paris, for one thing, and for another,--"Missis, I always
believe that them that wastes--wants. I've seen it too many times to
want to run the risk."

Mary is a character, but this theory of hers she carried to an extreme,
as you shall hear.

Owing to our respect for Mary's white hairs, the dinner-hour was as
changeable as a weathercock. We dined anywhere from seven to nine, and
soothed each other's irritation by calling ostentatious attention to the
delicacy and perfection of each dish as it came on the table. Why
shouldn't each be perfect, forsooth, when no amount of coaxing or
persuading, no amount of instructions beforehand or hints or orders could
make that cook of ours lift a finger toward dinner until we both were in
the house with hungry countenances and expectant demeanours? We even
tried telephoning her from down-town that we were on the way and would be
at home in an hour. When we came in at the end of that hour and said:

"Mary, is dinner ready?" the answer was always:

"No, dear child, but it will be in a minute."

At first we believed her and hurried to get ready, but as ten, twenty,
thirty minutes passed and no signs of soup appeared, we used to take
turns strolling carelessly into the kitchen as if to see what time it
was, to investigate the progress of dinner. If we came in at seven we
got it at eight. There was no way apparently of circumventing her. She
would have her own way.

Once the Angel said:

"Mary, didn't we telephone you that we wanted dinner just as soon as we
came in?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Well, wasn't it six o'clock when we telephoned?"

"Yes, sir, but I just thought maybe you would be delayed or the car would
run off the track or you'd stop to talk to some friends, so I wouldn't
begin to cook until I clapped my two eyes on you."

At first we used to laugh and say that it was her respect for food. Then
it worked on our tempers and grew anything but funny. It got to be
exasperating, infuriating, maddening.

"Now, Aubrey," I said, "it has come to the battle with the cook. Shall
we submit to petty tyranny or shall we strike?"

"I'll tell you what," said the Angel. "I haven't quite made up my mind
whether Mary is really amenable to kindness or whether she