Come Out of the Kitchen! A Romance. Alice Duer Miller

families south of Mason and Dixon's, sir—would not be induced to consider renting under the sum originally named."

      "It's pretty steep," said the young man, but his mild tone already betrayed him. "And how about servants?"

      "Ah," said Reed, looking particularly mask-like, "servants! That has been the great difficulty. To guarantee domestic service that will satisfy your difficult Northern standards—"

      "I am fussy about only two things," said Crane, "cooking and boots. Must have my boots properly done."

      "If you could have brought your own valet—"

      "But I told you he has typhoid fever. Now, see here, Mr. Reed, there really isn't any use wasting my time and yours. If you have not been able to get me a staff of servants with the house, I wouldn't dream of taking it. I thought we had made that clear."

      Reed waved his impatient client again to his chair.

      "There are at this moment four well-recommended servants yonder in the back office, waiting to be interviewed."

      "By me?" exclaimed Crane, looking slightly alarmed.

      Reed bowed.

      "I wish first, however," he went on, "to say a word or two about them. I obtained them with the greatest difficulty, from the Crosslett-Billingtons, of whom you have doubtless often heard."

      "Never in my life," said Crane.

      Reed raised his eyebrows.

      "He is one of our most distinguished citizens. His collection of tapestry, his villa at Capri—Ah, well, but that is immaterial! The family is now abroad, and has in consequence consented, as a personal favor to me, to allow you to take over four of their servants for the six weeks you will be here, but not a minute longer."

      Crane leaned back and blew smoke in the air.

      "Are they any good?" he asked.

      "You must judge for yourself."

      "No, you must tell me."

      "The butler is a competent person; the skill of the cook is a proverb—but we had better have them come in and speak to you themselves."

      "No, by Jove!" cried Crane, springing to his feet. "I don't think I could stand that." And he incontinently rushed from the office to the motor, where three mummy-like figures on the back seat had remained immovable during his absence.

      Of these, two were female and one male. To the elder of the women, Crane applied, hat in hand.

      "Won't you give me the benefit of your advice, Mrs. Falkener," he said. "The agent has some servants for me. The wages and everything like that have all been arranged, but would you mind just looking them over for me and telling me what you think about them?"

      To invite Mrs. Falkener to give her advice on a detail of household management was like inviting a duck to the pond. She stepped with a queen-like dignity from the car. She was a commanding woman who swam through life, borne up by her belief in her own infallibility. To be just, she was very nearly infallible in matters of comfort and domestic arrangement, and it was now many years since she had given attention to anything else in the world. She was a thorough, able and awe-inspiring woman of fifty-three.

      Now she moved into Reed's office, with motor-veils and dusters floating about her, like a solid wingless victory, and sat down in Randolph Reed's own chair. (It was part of her philosophy never to interview a social inferior until she herself was seated.) With a slight gesture of her gloved hand, she indicated that the servants might be admitted to her presence.

      The door to the back office opened and the four candidates entered. The first was the butler, a man slightly younger in years than most of those careworn functionaries. He came forward with a quick, rapid step, turning his feet out and walking on his toes. Only Mrs. Falkener recognized that it was the walk of a perfect butler. She would have engaged him on the spot, but when she noted that his hair was parted from forehead back to the line of his collar and brushed slightly forward in front of his ears, she experienced a feeling of envy and for the first time thought with dissatisfaction of the paragon she had left in charge of her own pantry at home.

      She did indeed ask him a question or two, just to assure herself of his English intonation, which, it must be owned, a residence in the South had slightly influenced. And then with a start she passed on to the next figure—the cook.

      On her the eyes of her future employer had already been fixed since the door first opened, and it would be hardly possible to exaggerate the effect produced by her appearance. She might have stepped from a Mid-Victorian Keepsake, or Book of Beauty. She should have worn eternally a crinoline and a wreath of flowers; her soft gray-blue eyes, her little bowed mouth, her slim throat, should have been the subject of a perpetual steel engraving. She was small, and light of bone, and her hands, crossed upon her check apron (for she was in her working dress), were so little and soft that they seemed hardly capable of lifting a pot or kettle.

      Mrs. Falkener expressed the general sentiment exactly when she gasped:

      "And you are the cook?"

      The cook, whose eyes had been decorously fixed upon the floor, now raised them, and sweeping one rapid glance across both her employer and the speaker, whispered discreetly:

      "Yes, ma'am."

      "What is your name?"

      And at this question a curious thing happened. The butler and Reed answered simultaneously. Only, the butler said "Jane," and Reed, with equal conviction, said "Ellen."

      Ignoring this seeming contradiction, the cook fixed her dove-like glance on Mrs. Falkener and answered:

      "My name is Jane-Ellen, ma'am."

      It was impossible for even as conscientious a housekeeper as Mrs. Falkener to be really severe with so gentle a creature, but she contrived to say, with a certain sternness:

      "I should like to see your references, Jane-Ellen."

      "Oh, I'm sure that will be all right, Mrs. Falkener," said Crane hastily. He had never removed his eyes from the face of his future cook.

      But Jane-Ellen, with soft gestures of those ridiculous hands, was already unfolding a paper, and now handed it to Mrs. Falkener.

      That lady took it and held it off at arm's length while she read it.

      "And who," she asked, turning to Reed, "is this Claudia Revelly? Mrs. Revelly, I suppose?"

      "Why, no," answered Reed. "No, as I told you, Mrs. Revelly is in Madeira with her husband. This is one of the Miss Revellys."

      "Humph," replied Mrs. Falkener. "It is a flattering reference, but in my time the word 'recommend' was spelled with only one 'c.'"

      The cook colored slightly and flashed a glance that might have been interpreted as reproachful at Reed, who said hastily:

      "Ah, yes, quite so. You know—the fact is—our Southern aristocracy—the Revellys are among our very—However, there can be no question whatever about Jane-Ellen's ability. You will, I can assure you from personal experience, be satisfied with her cooking. Mrs. Crosslett-Billington—"

      "Humph!" said Mrs. Falkener again, as one who does not mean to commit herself. "We shall see. Let the housemaid come a little forward."

      At this a young woman advanced; she bore a certain resemblance of feature to the butler, but entirely lacked his competent alertness.

      "This young woman looks to me sullen," Mrs. Falkener observed to Crane, hardly modulating her clear, dry tone of voice.

      Crane betrayed his embarrassment. He wished now that he had not invited his elderly friend's coöperation.

      "Oh," he said, "I'm sure it will be all right. It must be a trifle annoying to be looked over like this."

      "The best way to settle this sort of thing is at the start," replied Mrs. Falkener, and turning to