[Illustration:  Henry and I looked at the Cookery Book.]

The illustrations to the book delighted us, too, with their bold outlines, vigorous colouring, and, attention to detail.  Henry and I rather favour the impressionist school in art, but when you’re admiring a picture of salmon mayonnaise it refreshes you to distinguish the ingredients.

Elizabeth arrived the next day, bringing with her a small—­perplexingly small—­brown paper parcel.  The rest of her luggage, she said, was on the way.  It remained on the way so long that I finally got uneasy and began to question her about it.  She did not seem so disturbed at the prospect of its being lost as I did.  At last, when I declared my intention of writing Carter Paterson’s about it on her behalf, she confessed.  Frankness is one of her distinguishing qualities.

‘My box is still at my friend’s,’ she explained.  ’You see, when I goes to a new place I never ’ave my luggage sent on until I feel I’m going to settle.  It saves a lot o’ bother—­if I don’t stop.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I commented feebly.

‘I brought a clean cap and another pair o’ stockings with me, so I’m all right for a fortnight,’ she went on.  Her creed, like her change of underclothing, was obviously simple.  Mournfully I withdrew from the kitchen to meditate.

So we were on probation.  It was a tremulous time.  I bade Henry tread softly and not to forget to rub his feet on the mat.  I gave all my orders to Elizabeth in a voice which blended deference with supplication.  I strove hard to live up to what I thought must be her conception of the Perfect Mistress.  And when, the fortnight expired, Carter Paterson drove up and deposited a small corded box on the hall mat, I felt it to be a personal triumph.  But Henry said I had nothing to do with it.  To this day he declares that Elizabeth decided to stop because she so earnestly desired to serve such a gentle master.

CHAPTER III

No doubt you will have guessed that Henry is a better and sounder writer than I. He has helped me a lot with his criticism and advice, for he is fastidious regarding style.  There used to be a time, before he came along, when I walked in darkness, often beginning sentences with conjunctions and ending them with adverbs; I have even split infinitives and gone on my way rejoicing.  I am now greatly improved, though one of the incurable things I shall never eradicate from my system is a weakness for beginning sentences with ‘but.’  But if you observe it, I hope you will kindly pass it over without remark.

Henry often talks to me about construction.  ’If you are writing a book,’ he says, ’don’t introduce all your characters in the first chapter.  Let them develop gradually.’