“Yes, the bread and butter are quite a success, Phil, but this coffee—”
“Mild?” said I, taking my cue from the color of it as she poured.
“I should say so. It looks like a substitute for coffee.”
“Then I guess I don’t care for any,” said I. “But anyhow, you didn’t have to do any of the preparing, and we’ll leave it for Minerva to wash the dishes.”
I helped myself to milk and managed to eat an egg, but they are not very good when hot and hard, unless they are sliced and reposing on a bed of spinach.
I began to feel a little hot myself that Minerva should have led me to this successful exposure of incompetence, and leaving the table I went up stairs and called out somewhat angrily,
“Minerva, we’re all through breakfast and you’ll have to come right down and prepare lunch, as nothing has been fit to eat.”
A snore was the only response that she gave, and I was glad she had not heard me. One cannot afford to be peremptory if one has but one string to one’s bow. I came down stairs again.
Ethel was in the kitchen frying some eggs and preparing some more coffee.
“Is she coming down?” asked she.