“And everyone just as well pleased,” he said, in real admiration.  “I congratulate you.”

“It’s only what we are all taught at college,” Justine assured him.  “I’m just doing what they told me to!  It’s my business.”

“It’s pretty big business, and it’s been waiting a long while,” said Kane Salisbury.

When Mrs. Salisbury began to get well, she began to get very hungry.  This was plain sailing for Justine, and she put her whole heart into the dainty trays that went upstairs three times a day.  While she was enjoying them, Mrs. Salisbury liked to draw out her clever maid, and the older woman and the young one had many a pleasant talk together.  Justine told her mistress that she had been country-born and bred, and had grown up with a country girl’s longing for nice surroundings and education of the better sort.

“My name is not Justine at all,” she said smilingly, “nor Harrison, either, although I chose it because I have cousins of that name.  We are all given names when we go to college and take them with us.  Until the work is recognized, as it must be some day, as dignified and even artistic, we are advised to sink our own identities in this way.”

“You mean that Harrison isn’t your name?” Mrs. Salisbury felt this to be really a little alarming, in some vague way.

“Oh, no!  And Justine was given me as a number might have been.”

“But what is your name?” The question fell from Mrs. Salisbury as naturally as an “Ouch!” would have fallen had somebody dropped a lighted match on her hand.  “I had no idea of that!” she went on artlessly.  “But I suppose you told Mr. Salisbury?”

The luncheon was finished, and now Justine stood up, and picked up the tray.

“No.  That’s the very point.  We use our college names,” she reiterated simply.  “Will you let me bring you up a little more custard, Madam?”

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Salisbury said, after a second’s pause.  She looked a little thoughtful as Justine walked away.  There is no real reason why one’s maid should not wear an assumed name, of course.  Still—­

“What a ridiculous thing that college must be!” said Mrs. Salisbury, turning comfortably in her pillows.  “But she certainly is a splendid cook!”

About this point, at least, there was no argument.  Justine did not need cream or sherry, chopped nuts or mushroom sauces to make simple food delicious.  She knew endless ways in which to serve food; potatoes became a nightly surprise, macaroni was never the same, rice had a dozen delightful roles.  Because the family enjoyed her maple custard or almond cake, she did not, as is the habit with cooks, abandon every other flavoring for maple or almond.  She was following a broader schedule than that supplied by the personal tastes of the Salisburys, and she went her way serenely.

Not so much as a teaspoonful of cold spinach was wasted in these days.  Justine’s “left-over” dishes were quite as good as anything else she cooked; her artful combinations, her garnishes of pastry, her illusive seasoning, her enveloping and varied sauces disguised and transformed last night’s dinner into a real feast to-night.