As There Was Not A Single
Person At The Table When Dawson Came In, We Were Obliged To Say That
We Had Finished Dinner, Thank You, And Would Take Coffee; No Sweet
To-Night, Thank You.
Willie Beresford was the only one who minded, but he rather likes
cherry tart.
It simply chanced to be cherry tart, for our cook at
Smith's Private Hotel is a person of unbridled fancy and endless
repertory. She sometimes, for example, substitutes rhubarb for
cherry tart quite out of her own head; and when balked of both these
dainties, and thrown absolutely on her own boundless resources, will
create a dish of stewed green gooseberries and a companion piece of
liquid custard. These unrelated concoctions, when eaten at the same
moment, as is her intention, always remind me of the lying down
together of the lion and the lamb, and the scheme is well-nigh as
dangerous, under any other circumstances than those of the digestive
millennium. I tremble to think what would ensue if all the rhubarb
and gooseberry bushes in England should be uprooted in a single
night. I believe that thousands of cooks, those not possessed of
families or Christian principles, would drown themselves in the
Thames forthwith, but that is neither here nor there, and the
Honourable Arthur denies it. He says, "Why commit suicide? Ain't
there currants?"
I had forgotten to say that we ourselves were all en grande
toilette, down to satin slippers, feeling somehow that it was the
only proper thing to do; and when Dawson had cleared the table and
ushered in the other visitors, we ladies took our coffee and the men
their cigarettes to the three front windows, which were open as
usual to our balcony.
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