Mrs. Wilders, without answering, pettishly pulled the bell.
"Lay another cover," she told the man, "and bring wine with the breakfast. You will want it, I suppose," she said to her guest; "I never touch it in the morning."
"How charmingly you manage! You have a special gift as a housewife. What a delightful meal! I have seen nothing more refined in Paris."
There was a delicious lobster-salad, a dish of cold cutlets and jelly, and a great heap of strawberries with cream.
"Now get to business," said Mrs. Wilders, in a snarling, ill-tempered way; "let's have it out."
"It's a pity you are out of humour this morning," observed Mr. Hobson, with a provoking forbearance. "I have come to find fault."
Mrs. Wilders shrugged her shoulders, implying that she did not care.
"It may seem ungracious, but I must take you to task seriously. How is it you give me no news?"
"I tell you all I hear; what more do you want?"
"A great deal. Look here, Cyprienne, I am not to be put off with stale, second-hand gossip—the echoes of the Clubs; vague, empty rumours that are on everybody's tongue long before they come to me. I must have fresh, brand-new intelligence, straight from the fountain-head. You must get it for me, or—"