Shortly afterwards, perfect in most details of her black silk, she left the bedroom, requesting her husband to be quick, as tea was ready. And she came into the little dining-room where the youthful servant was poking up the fire.
"Jane," she said, "put two medium-sized potatoes in the oven to bake."
"Potatoes, mum?"
"Yes, potatoes," said Mrs Swann, tartly.
It was an idea of pure genius that had suddenly struck her; the genius of common sense.
She somewhat hurried the tea; then rang.
"Jane," she inquired, "are those potatoes ready?"
"Potatoes?" exclaimed Mr Swann.
"Yes, hot potatoes," said Mrs Swann, tartly. "I'm going to run up with them by car to Mrs Vernon's. I can slip them quietly over to Gil. They keep your hands warm better than anything. Don't I remember when I was a child! I shall leave Mrs Vernon's immediately, of course, but perhaps you'd better give me my ticket and I will meet you at the hall. Don't you think it's the best plan, John?"
"As you like," said Mr Swann, with the force of habit.