midnight
Cookery was to her what poetry and the worship of Humanity , and Esoteric Buddhism are to others ; and from the time when she began life as a kitchen-maid in a small hotel , she had followed her art with singleness of purpose and unflagging zeal . She felt it as a kind of degradation to have a lodger in her house who was satisfied to order a mutton chop and a potato day after day . It was no wonder then that she grew more reticent and dark-browed and sullen every day , and that she went about the house like a person perpetually brooding over some dark secret . Some awful midnight crime , perhaps -- some beautiful and unhappy young heiress , left in her charge , and smothered with a pillow for yellow gold , still haunting her in Quebec Street . So might one have imagined ; but it would have been a mistake , for the poor woman was haunted by nothing more ghastly than the image of her lodger 's mutton chop and potato . And at last she could endure it no longer , and spoke out . `` I beg your pardon for saying it , Miss , '' she said in an aggrieved tone , `` but I think it very strange you ca n't order anything better for your dinner . ''