“Everything appears to be very convenient,” he approved, as he examined the large ice-chest in the corner of the storeroom. “We think so,” was the response. “Mrs. Gresham spared no money in remodeling this part of the house.” The talk passed to the donator’s beneficence, until, finally, they came back to the kitchen, where the clock told them that tea-time was not far away. The new cook at once began preparations for the meal, and in the short time that Polly remained she had to admit to herself that here was no green hand, and she left the room with a relief that she had not known since Benedicta’s departure. That first tea will always remain in the memory of those that sat at the table with Sardis Merrifield. Bouillon, deliciously seasoned; small rolls--hot, light, tender, and crusted--as rolls should be; salad served on individual dishes, lettuce leaves beneath and sprays of parsley atop; a layer cake with filling of peaches and whipped cream;--that was all, but no one who shared the meal felt any lack. “Where did he get that salad dressing,” queried Lilith of Polly, while the new cook was washing the dishes. “There wasn’t a drop in the pantry, and he surely hadn’t time to make it; yet there it was, exactly in the middle of each slice of tomato--and wasn’t it good!” “It was good, and he made the dressing,” answered Polly. “How do you know?” queried Lilith in surprise. “I asked him when I went out to offer my services as dish-wiper,” replied Polly. “Do you know what was in that salad?” “No, I couldn’t quite make out--tomatoes and cabbage for two things.” “And macaroni!” “I thought of that, but I couldn’t believe it was.” “He found some in the refrigerator, so he chopped some cabbage to go with it; he says he often puts them together.” “And wasn’t it arranged prettily? Where in the world did he learn to do those things?” Polly shook her head. “I am going to find out.” Two days afterward she came upon the new cook in the kitchen scanning a small volume. “I am hunting for a pudding recipe,” he told her. “It is an imposition for us to let you do all this work,” she said apologetically. “No, indeed,” he replied; “it is a real pleasure. Besides, I was falling out of practice. I ought to remember how to make this pudding without consulting a recipe.” Polly looked at him curiously. “You talk--and cook--as if you were a professional,” she laughed. “I am. This is the first summer for five years that I have not been concocting dishes for the table. I cooked my way through college, first at the commons, then at a New York restaurant. Finally a Yale boy rescued me, and for three summers I was chef at his father’s home up the Hudson.” “Isn’t that fine!” exclaimed Polly, her eyes shining. “Some people don’t see it that way,” smiled the young man. “Why not?” Polly returned in an astonished tone. “I think it is splendid to work one’s way through college; but I never should have thought of cooking.”