I,
who for the last twenty years, have never even dressed the salad without
at least one pair of eyes watching me toss the lettuce as though I was
performing some wonderful Indian conjuring trick.
A festal board at which one sits in solitary grandeur is the dreariest
thing imaginable.
I rather wish Torp had less "style," as she calls it. Undoubtedly she
has lived in large establishments and has picked up some habits and
customs from each of them. She is welcome to wait at table in white
cotton gloves and to perch a huge silk bow on her hair, which is
redolent of the kitchen, but when it comes to trimming her poor
work-worn nails to the fashionable pyramidal shape--she really becomes
tragic.
She "romanticises" everything. I should not be at all surprised if some
day she decked her kitchen range with wreaths of roses and hung up works
of art between the stewpans.
I am really glad I did not bring Samuel the footman with me. He could
not have waited on me better than Jeanne, and at any rate I am free from
his eyes, which, in spite of all their respectful looks, always reminded
me of a fly-paper full of dead and dying flies.
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