TRANTO. Now why, Mrs. Culver? I thought it was so clever.
MRS. CULVER. It may be clever to advocate fried potatoes and chip potatoes and sauté potatoes as a change from the everlasting boiled. I daresay it's what you call journalism. But how can you fry potatoes without fat?
TRANTO. Ah! How?
MRS. CULVER. And where are you to obtain fat? I can't obtain fat. I stand in queues for hours because my servants won't—it's the latest form of democracy—but I can't obtain fat. I think the nearest fat is at Stratford-on-Avon.
TRANTO. Stand in queues! Mrs. Culver, you make me feel very guilty, plunging in at a
moment's notice and demanding a whole dinner in a fatless world. I shall eat nothing but dry bread.
MRS. CULVER. We never serve bread at lunch or dinner unless it's specially asked for. But if soup, macaroni, eggs, and jelly will keep you alive till breakfast—
HILDEGARDE. But there's beefsteak, mamma—I've told Mr. Tranto.
MRS. CULVER. Only a little, and that's for your father. Beefsteak's the one thing that keeps off his neuralgia, Mr. Tranto. ( With apologetic persuasiveness .) I'm sure you'll understand.
TRANTO. Dear lady, I've never had neuralgia in my life. Macaroni, eggs, and jelly are my dream. I've always wanted to feel like an invalid.