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?"

Campbell: "_There's_ a respectable butter-ball over in the corner by
the window there. You'd better go and speak to her. She's got a
gingham bundle, like a cook's, in her lap, and she keeps looking about
in a fidgety way, as if she expected somebody. I guess that's your
woman, Roberts. Better not let her give you the slip. You'll never
hear the last of it from Agnes if you do. And who'll get our dinner
to-night?"

Roberts, looking over at the woman in the corner, with growing
conviction; "She does answer to the description."