“No.”
“Then it is only your lips call it luncheon. Your poor stomach, could it speak, would call it dinner. Afternoon tea?”
“Yaas.”
“At seven-thirty another dinner. Tea after that. Your afflicted stomach gets no rest. You eat pastry?”
“I confess it.”
“And sugar in a dozen forms?”
She nodded.
“Well, sugar is poison to your temperament. Now I'll set you up, if you can obey. Give up your morning dram.”
“What dwam?”
“Tea in bed, before eating. Can't you see that is a dram? Animal food twice a day. No wine but a little claret and water; no pastry, no sweets, and play battledore with one of your male subjects.”