"Most attractive diners and weekenders," said I. "They got all the laughs at your dinner to the Archbishop of Decanterbury, and their man Smathers tells me they're the swellest things going at week-end parties because of his ingenuity at cotillion leading and her undeniable charms as a flirt. By Jove! she's that easy with men that even I tremble with anxiety whenever she comes into the house." "But how do they live?--they haven't a cent to their names," said Henriette. "Simplicity itself," said I. "He is dressed by his tailors and she by her dressmaker; and as for food, they take home a suit-case full of it from every house-party they attend. They're so gracious to the servants that they don't have to think of tips; and as for Smathers, and Mrs. Dedbroke-Hicks's maid, they're paid reporters on the staff of _The Town Tattler_ and are willing to serve for nothing for the opportunities for items the connection gives them." "Well--I don't envy them in the least," said Henriette. "Poor things--to be always taking and never giving must be an awful strain, though to be sure their little trolley party out to Tiverton and back was delightful--" "Exactly; and with car-fare and sandwiches, and the champagne supplied free by the importers, for the advertisement, it cost them exactly twelve dollars and was set down as the jolliest affair of the season," said I. "I call that genius of a pretty high order. I wouldn't pity them if I were you. They're happy." "Mrs. Innitt, though--I envy her," said Henriette; "that is, in a way. She has no conversation at all, but her little dinners are the swellest things of the season. Never more than ten people at a time and everything cooked to a turn." "That's just it," said I. "I hear enough at the club to know just what cinches Mrs. Innitt's position. It's her cook, that's what does it. If she lost her cook she'd be Mrs. Outofit. There never were such pancakes, such purees, such made dishes as that woman gets up. She turns hash into a confection and liver and bacon into a delicacy. Corned-beef in her hands is a discovery and her sauces are such that a bit of roast rhinoceros hide tastes like the tenderest of squab when served by her. No wonder Mrs. Innitt holds her own. A woman with a cook like Norah Sullivan could rule an empire." A moment later I was sorry I had spoken, for my words electrified her. "_I must have her!_" cried Henriette. "What, Mrs. Innitt?" I asked. "No--her cook," said Henriette.