‘How beautiful,’ I murmured again.  It sounded like a poem.  Swinburne or de Musset have never stirred me so deeply as did that simple recitation.

Elizabeth, seeing that she had an attentive audience, continued, ’Take roast pork, now.  Well, I always say there’s a lot in the cookin’ o’ that, with crisp cracklin’, apple sauce an’ stuffin’-----’

‘Don’t go on,’ I, broke in, feeling in my weakened state, unable to stand any more.  Tears that men weep had risen to my eyes.  ‘Promise,’ I said, taking her toil-worn hand, ‘that you will come to-morrow.’

‘Right-o,’ said Elizabeth, and her lank form disappeared in the darkness.  I staggered into the dining-room.  Henry was sitting at the disordered dinner table jotting down notes.  At any other time this would have irritated me, because I knew it was a preliminary to his remark that as he had an article to write which must be finished that evening he would not be able to help me with the washing-up.  A hackneyed dodge of his.  Oh, I could tell you a tale of the meanness of men.

‘Henry, something has happened,’ I began.

Without looking round he remarked, ’Don’t disturb me.  I must write up a brief biographical sketch of Courtenay Colville, the actor.  He’s been taken seriously ill and may be dead just in time for the morning papers.’  In this way do journalists speak.  To them life and death, all the tremendous happenings of the world—­wars, revolutions, or even weddings of revue actresses—­are just so much matter for printed and pictorial display.  Do you think, if a great and honoured statesman dies, sub-editors care two pins about his public services?  Not they.  All they worry about is whether he is worth double-column headings, a long primer intro., and a line across the page.

‘I didn’t know Courtenay Colville was so ill,’ I commented mildly.  What I did know was that he was reported to have sprained his right toe at golf, and only an hour previously I should have commented caustically on Henry’s description of this ‘serious illness.’  Now I came up to him and put my arm about his neck.

‘I’ve just put on a clean collar—­be careful,’ he said, shaking off my hand.

‘Henry, dear, I’ve landed a servant at last,’ I breathed.

He looked up and, for a moment, I felt that I ought not to have told him so suddenly.  But joy does not often kill.  I went and knelt beside him.  ‘Dearest,’ I whispered, ’it seems as though all the bitterness and misunderstanding between you and me is to be swept away at last.  She can cook steaks, dear—­juicy steaks, pork with crackling——­’

‘Sage and onion stuffing?’ burst in a hoarse murmur from Henry.

‘Yes, and large mutton chops, rich in fat——­’

‘Dearest, how splendid,’ whispered Henry.  Our lips met in ecstacy.

That evening was one of the happiest we have ever spent.  Henry and I sat together on the divan and looked at the cookery-book.  There was no doubt about it.  Henry said, that Mrs. Beeton was a wonderful woman.  We felt that she and Mr. Beeton must have been tremendously happy in their married life.