“Turkey and grouse,” was the concise reply.
“And what besides?”
“Fish.”
“What kind of fish?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.
“No. I told the cook to get some fish—I did not particularize what.”
“Well, that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and doesn’t even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and doesn’t specify what!”
“Perhaps, Mr. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.”
Nothing more was said; and I was very glad to get out of the room with my pupils; for I never felt so ashamed and uncomfortable in my life for anything that was not my own fault.