_From_ MR. ALFRED PYE, _Professed Man Cook,
to_
MISS MARTHA BROWNING.
What a stew I was in all Friday, when no letter came from my Patty!
Everything went wrong. I made a hash of one of my _entrées_, and the
_chef_, who guessed the cause of my confusion, roasted me so that at
last I boiled over, and gave him rather a tart answer, for, as you know,
I am at times a little too peppery. Thy sweet note, when it _did_
arrive, made all right. I believe I was quite foolish, and went capering
about with delight. And then I cooled down, and composed a new
_soufflé_. So you see I do not fritter away _all_ my time, whatever
those malicious people who are so ready to carp at me may think.
You say you always like to know where I go in an evening. Well, I went
to the Trotters last night, and Fanny played the accompaniment, and I
sang--how it made me think of you!--"_Good-bye, Sweetbread, good-bye!_"
(How absurd! Do you see what I have written instead of _"Sweetheart"_?
All the force of habit. It will remind you of that night at Cookham,
when we were the top couple in the supper quadrille, and I shouted,
"Now, Side-dishes, begin!" and everybody roared except a certain young
lady, who looked a trifle vexed. Don't you remember that Spring? You
must, because the young potatoes were so small.)
Your _protégé_, Peter, goes on famously. He's a broth of a boy, not a
pickle, like many lads of his age, and yet he won't stand being sauced,
as he calls it. He and I nearly got parted at the station, for the crowd
was very great after the races--in fact, a regular jam. It rained hard
when we reached Sandwich, and I got dripping wet, for I had forgotten my
waterproof, and there was not a cab to be had. But now the weather has
changed again, and we are half baked. A broiling sun and not a puff of
wind.
There was no one in the train I knew. Some small fry stuffing buns all
the way, and opposite me a girl who had her hair crimped just like
yours, and wore exactly the same sort of scalloped jacket. A raw young
man with her, evidently quite spooney; and they larded their talk with
rather too many "loves" and "dears" for my taste, for you know _we_ are
never tender in public. It grated _so_ on my ear, that at last I made
some harmless joke to try and stop it, but mademoiselle, who spoke in
that mincing way you detest, turtled up, so I held my tongue all the
rest of the way, and amused myself with looking at your _carte_, and
concocting one of my own for our great dinner on the 29th, for the
_chef_ has gone to Spithead, and left all to me. And now, my duck, not
to mince matters, when I have got that off my mind (if the dinner is
only as well dressed as you, it will do), you must fix the day. I am
quite unsettled. I cannot concentrate my thoughts on my gravies as I
ought, and my desserts are anything but meritorious. All your fault,
miss. You are as slippery as an eel. I must have it all arranged when I
come up to the City next week. I have some business in the Poultry, but
shall slip away as soon as I can, and bring your mother the potted
grouse and chutney. ("Cunning man," I hear you say, "he wants to curry
favour with mamma.") And you will do what I ask? Where shall we go for
our wedding trip?--Strasbourg, Turkey, Cayenne, Westphalia,
Worcestershire? Perhaps, I think most of coming back to the little house
which I know somebody will always keep in apple-pie order, and of covers
for two; and I shall admire the pretty filbert-nails while she
peels my nuts, and we will both give up our flirtations, mere
_entremets_, and sit down soberly to enjoy that substantial
_pièce de résistance_ -- Matrimony. Do you like the _menu_?
Then, my lamb, say "yes" to