“It is easy to see there is no man about the house, Judy. Such a dazzling banquet could only be served at a hen-party.”
“Nonsense,” said she, smiling idly. “I have trained Dick to live the simple life too. He doesn’t care a scrap what he gets now. What is the use of worrying about the menu? There is nothing to be got here in any case except tinned things and goat.”
“Yes, but they needn’t taste of the tin. And goat should be disguised. As it is I recognise this one. Hardly a decent interval has elapsed since I met it walking with Mafoota.”
They all laughed. There was something to be said for life in Mashonaland. It certainly induced a sort of gay tolerance for general discomfort. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe began to brag about a lovely goat curry she had had for lunch the day before, that no one had been able to tell from curried prawns.
“I daresay,” said Judy; “but you and Anna have Mrs Brand’s Adriana to cook for you. I have no one but the boys, and you know what they are. I’ve told them dozens of times about taking the eyes out of the potatoes, but there you are—just look at them.”
“They’re looking at us,” I objected.
“Why not have them roasted whole in their jackets?” suggested Mrs Valetta. “They’re much nicer that way, and it would obviate the peeling difficulty.”
“I never thought of it,” said Judy, looking surprised. “As for supper to-night, I haven’t the faintest notion of what people are going to eat. Let us hope they won’t be hungry.”
I reflected that if they had all dined as badly as we had they would be ravenous, and for the honour of the house I said so with such delicacy as I could command. But delicacy was wasted on my sister-in-law.
“It is no use their bringing sybaritic appetites here,” she said. “Cheese sandwiches and a whiskey and soda is the best I can do, and it ought to be good enough for any one—unless you will undertake the menu and serve something better, Deirdre.”