“Well, it’s fairly to your credit!” And perhaps this was as near praise as his New England speech ever came.

CHAPTER XV

ECHOES FROM THE CITY

Sallie Kingsbury, unused to psychological analysis, could not have explained why Mr. Hand was so objectionable to her.  He was no relative of the family, she had discovered that; and, accustomed as she was to the old-fashioned gentility of a thrifty New England town, instinct told her that he could not possibly be one of its varied products.  He might have come from anywhere; he talked so little that he was suspicious on that ground alone; and when he did speak, there was no accent at all that Sallie could lay hold of.  Useful as he was just now in taking care of that poor young man up-stairs, he nevertheless inspired in her breast a most unholy irritation.  Her attitude was that of a housemaid pursuing the cat with the broom.

Mr. Hand was not greatly troubled by Sallie’s tendency to sweep him out of the way, but whenever he took any notice of her he was more than a match for her.  On the afternoon following Agatha’s visit to Mrs. Stoddard, he appeared to show some slight objection to being treated like the cat.  He ate his luncheon in the kitchen—­a large, delightful room—­while Aleck Van Camp stayed with James.  Hand was stirring broth over the stove, now and then giving a sharp eye to Sallie’s preparation of her new mistress’ luncheon.

“You haven’t put any salt or pepper on mademoiselle’s tray, Sallie,” said he, as the maid was about to start up-stairs.

“Miss Sallie, I should prefer, Mr. Hand,” she requested in a mournful tone of resignation.  “And Miss Redmond don’t take any pepper on her aigs; I watched her yesterday.”

“Well, she may want some to-day, just the same,” insisted Mr. Hand in a lordly manner, putting a thin silver boat, filled with salt, and a cheap pink glass pepper-shaker side by side on the tray.  Sallie brushed Hand away in disgust.

“That doesn’t go with the best silver salt-cellar; that’s the kitchen pepper.  And, you can say Miss Sallie, if you please.”

“No, just Sallie, if you please!  I’ve taken a great fancy to you, Sallie, and I don’t like to be so formal,” argued Hand.  “Besides, I like your name; and I’ll carry the tray to the top of the stairs for you, if you’ll be good.”

“I wouldn’t trouble you for the world, Mr. Hand,” she tossed back.  “You’d stumble and break Parson Thayer’s best china that I’ve washed for seventeen years and only broke the handle of one cup.  She wouldn’t drink her coffee this morning outer the second-best cups; went to the buttery before breakfast and picked out wunner the best set, and poured herself a cup.  She said it was inspiring, but I call it wasteful—­and me with extra work all day!”

Sallie disappeared, leaving a dribbling trail of good-natured complaint behind her.  Mr. Hand continued making broth—­at which he was as expert as he was at the lever or the launch engine.  He strained and seasoned, and regarded two floating islands of oily substance with disapproval.  While he was working Sallie joined him again at the stove, her important and injured manner all to the front.