"Have you noticed nothing odd about their relationship, Valentine?" "No, and it's not appropriate for us to discuss it." Monsieur Broussard regarded Mrs. Pennywhistle with keen interest. "I'm French," he said. "I have no problem discussing it." Mrs. Pennywhistle lowered her voice, mindful of the scullery maids who were washing pots in the adjoining room. "There is some doubt as to whether they've had conjugal relations yet." "Now see here--" Jake began, outraged at this violation of his employer's privacy. "Have some of this, mon ami," Broussard said, shoving a pastry plate at him. As Jake sat and picked up a spoon, the chef gave Mrs. Pennywhistle an encouraging glance. "What gives you the impression that he has not yet, er . . . sampled the watercress?" "Watercress?" Jake repeated incredulously. "Cresson." Broussard gave him a superior look. "A metaphor. And much nicer than the metaphors you English use for the same thing." "I never use metaphors," Jake muttered. "Bien sur, you have no imagination." The chef turned back to the housekeeper. "Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?" "The sheets," she said succinctly. Jake nearly choked on his pastry. "You have the housemaids spying on them?" he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream. "Not at all," the housekeeper said defensively. "It's only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn't, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple." The chef looked deeply concerned. "You think there's a problem with his carrot?" "Watercress, carrot--is everything food to you?" Jake demanded. The chef shrugged. "Oui." "Well," Jake said testily, "there is a string of Rutledge's past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot." "Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?"