Campbell: “I don’t believe you know how long you’d been reading. Very likely your cook’s come and gone.” Roberts, with some alarm: “She couldn’t. I’d only just opened the book.” Campbell: “I dare say you _think_ so. But you’d better cast your eagle eye over this assemblage now, and see if she isn’t here; though probably she’s gone. What sort of looking woman is she?” Roberts, staring at him in consternation: “Bless my soul! I don’t know! I never saw her!” Campbell: “Never saw her?” Roberts: “No; Agnes engaged her at the intelligence-office, and told her we should meet her here, and she had to go back for her purse, and left me to explain.” Campbell: “Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! How did she expect you to recognize her?” Roberts: “I--I don’t know, I’m sure. She--she was very anxious I shouldn’t let her get away.” Campbell, laughing: “You poor old fellow! What are you going to do?” Roberts: “I’m sure I’ve no idea. Agnes--” Campbell: “Agnes ought to have a keeper. You know what I’ve always thought of _your_ presence of mind, Roberts; but Agnes--I’m really surprised at Agnes. This is too good! I must tell Amy this. She’ll never get over this. Ah, ha, ha, ha!” Roberts: “No, no! You mustn’t, Willis. Agnes would be very much provoked with me, if you told Amy she had been engaging a cook. She expects to smuggle her into the house without Amy’s knowing.” Campbell: “And she left you to meet her here, and keep her--a cook you’d never set eyes on! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah, ha, ha, ha! What’s her name?” Roberts: “Agnes couldn’t remember her last name--one never remembers a cook’s last name. Her first name is Norah or Bridget.” Campbell: “Maggie, perhaps; they all sound alike. Ah, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! This improves.” Roberts: “Don’t, Willis; you’ll attract attention. What--what shall I do? If Agnes comes back, and finds I’ve let the cook get away, she’ll be terribly put out.” Campbell: “Perfectly furious, you poor old fellow!--the rage of a disappointed pigeon! I wouldn’t be in your shoes for anything. Oh my! I wish Amy was here. Did--did--Agnes”--(he struggles with his laughter, and explodes from time to time between syllables)--“did she tell you how the woman looked?” Roberts: “She said she was a very respectable-looking old thing--a perfect butter-ball. I suppose she was stout.” Campbell: “That covers the ground of a great many cooks. They’re apt to look respectable when they’re off duty and they’re not in liquor, and they’re apt to be perfect butter-balls. Any other distinctive traits?” Roberts, ruefully: “I don’t know. She’s Irish, and a Catholic.” Campbell: “They’re apt to be Irish, and Catholics too. Well, Roberts, I don’t see what you can ask better. All you’ve got to do is to pick out a respectable butter-ball of that religion and nationality, and tell her you’re Mrs. Roberts’s husband, and you’re to keep her from slipping away till Mrs. Roberts gets here.” Roberts: “Oh, pshaw, now, Willis! What would you do?”