"Well, Archie, Madame de Lyrolle appeared to think them inadequate. There are so many things that we lack. One of her first demands was for the asparagus tongs, and—and—when I told her that we had never used any, I saw her smile and—glance at Leonie. And Leonie smiled, too, and—and then they both smiled together. She asked me if we had individual asparagus holders, and—and—then there were more smiles."
Letitia's face was burning, and she was apparently re-sampling her humiliation.
"After that," she continued, "she asked me where we kept the grape-scissors, and again I had to admit that we had none. 'Oh,' she remarked quite scornfully, 'and how do you separate grapes? You don't pull them apart?' Of course we do, Archie, but I dreaded to say so. I think I stammered, and once more I saw her exchange glances with Leonie. I could have burst into tears when she asked for the orange cups. It was absolutely galling. Honestly, I thought they would have left the house immediately when I confessed to the absence of orange cups. I might have committed a crime, Madame de Lyrolle looked black, and Leonie pursed her lips. Madame said that never—never during her artistic career (those were her words) had she affiliated (her word) with people who failed in the matter of orange cups."
"I wouldn't use them," I interrupted angrily. "Thank goodness, while I have my health and strength, I can peel an orange with my good old fingers and a knife."
"Hush, dear. After the orange-cup episode, she seemed to regard me with a sort of tender pity. I'm sure she considered me a Goth, and—and—nobody has ever done that before. To be pitied by one's cook! Oh, it was horrible. When it came to the silver, which as you know, dear, is mostly quadruple plate—silver in name only—I was reduced to a sort of pulp. She and Leonie examined it critically, positively looking for marks on it, and I should have hated to hear their comments in my absence. 'I have never served food in anything but sterling silver before,' said Madame. 'Just imagine my salmi of black game, in an entrée dish of quadruple plate! Why, the delicacy of the flavor would be ruined. I'm afraid I shall not be able to achieve a salmi."
I began to experience a slight symptom of Letitia's humiliation, as I realized that while I might one day be a successful author, I could never—never—be a Wall Street broker!
"I told her," Letitia resumed, bitterly mortified, "that we would try to do without the salmi. We would endeavor to drag on a wretched existence without black game. I meant this for sarcasm, but it didn't take. Her lip curled. 'As Madame wishes,' she said contemptuously. Of course, some of our silver is not quadruple plate—the salt-cellars and the cruets. I longed for her to reach them. Would you believe it, Archie, she was not interested? Artists, she said, did not sanction the appearance on table of salt-cellars or cruets. Food should be properly seasoned before it left the kitchen. Salt-cellars and cruets belonged to the barbarous table notions of uneducated English and Americans."
"Really, Letitia, I don't think we can—"
"Don't, please. It is all right now. I'm just telling you what did happen, so that you can sympathize with me. I've been through it all—alone. She then told me that while salt-cellars on a dinner table were unnecessary, bonbonnières filled with dainty candy were rigidly called for. When she saw our bonbonnières, she and Leonie turned quietly aside. You remember, Archie, they were theater souvenirs that Aunt Julia gave us. One celebrated the one hundredth performance of The Masqueraders, the other the fiftieth performance of The Girl With the Green Eyes. I really felt quite abject. I—I—positively longed for—for Mrs. Potzenheimer."
Poor Letitia! It was cruel. Gladly would I have spared her such chagrin.