Mother said afterwards that she couldn't see any improvement anywhere, but anyhow we enjoyed ourselves and that is everything. We spent money on it, for we bought _décalcomanie_ pictures, and did bouquets all over the mantelpieces, but Mother insisted we should peel all these off again before George came back. He couldn't come back till we got that cook, for George is most absurdly particular about our servants. Sarah has got used to him, and there seems to be no idea of her going. She has to valet him, for he is always beautifully dressed. She has to take the greatest care of her own appearance, and get her nails manicured and her hair waved when he is at home. That is about all for her. But the cook he calls the keeper of his conscience, that is to say, his digestion. His digestion is as jumpy as he is. Sometimes it wants everything quite plain, and he will eat nothing but our rice-puddings and cold shapes of tapioca, etc.; at another time he calls it "apparition," and says the very name of it makes him shiver. I am used to cold shapes, alas! He sometimes brings things down from town himself--caviare and "patty de foy." Children are not supposed to like that sort of thing, but we do, and George gives them us; he is not mean in trifles. Sometimes it is pheasants and partridges, that he has shot himself on ducal acres. They are shot very badly, not tidily, with the shot all in one place as it ought to be: Mr. Aix explained this to me. They are not to be cooked till they are ready, and when they are they are a little too ready for Mother and us, so Papa and Mr. Aix have to eat it all. George belongs to the sect of the Epicureans; I heard him tell the cook so, also that he is the reincarnation of a gentleman called Villon. For a month Mother "sat in" for cooks, and all sorts of fat and lean women came and went. Our establishment didn't seem attractive. George bespoke a fat one, by letter, but Mother inclined to lean. These women sat on the best chairs and prodded the pattern of the carpets with their dusty umbrellas, and asked tons of questions,--far more than she asked them, it seemed to me, and this one that we have at last got was the coolest of all, but in rather a nice way. She was tall and thin, with a long nose with a dip in it just before the tip, which was particularly broad. Ariadne said afterwards that a nose like that seemed to need a bustle. She said she was a north-country woman, and that is about all she did tell us about herself, except her name, Elizabeth Cawthorne. She sat and asked questions. When she came to the usual "And if you please, ma'am, how many is there in family?" Mother answered, "Myself and my son and my two daughters,--and my sister--she is professional--and is here for long visits--that is all." "Then I take it you are a widow, ma'am?"