‘My husband loathes them.’
‘Well, well! What do you say to sweetbreads en caisse? All you want are chopped mushrooms, shalots, parsley, nutmeg, pepper, salt, breadcrumb, bacon fat—’
‘No, no,’ cried Mrs. Beecher despairingly. ‘Anne would never remember all that.’
‘Cutlets à la Constance,’ said Mrs. Hunt Mortimer. ‘I am sure that they are simple enough. Cutlets, butter, fowls’ livers, cocks’ combs, mushrooms—’
‘My dear, my dear, remember that she is only a parlourmaid. It is unreasonable.’
‘Ragout of fowl, chicken patties, croquettes of veal with a little browning—’
‘We’ve got back to Browning after all,’ cried Maude.
‘Dear me,’ said Mrs. Beecher, ‘it is all my fault, and I am so sorry. Now, Mrs. Hunt Mortimer, do please read us a little of that delightful poetry.’
‘You can always get small entrées sent down from the Stores,’ cried Maude, as a happy thought.
‘You dear, good girl, how sweet of you to think of it. Of course one can. That is really an admirable idea. There now, we may consider the entrée as being removed, so we proceed to—’