"Shut up," said Daphne. "It's all right, Katharine. I was speaking to Berry ... Oh, he's fed to the teeth."
"I cannot congratulate you," said her husband, "upon your choice of metaphor."
My sister ignored the interruption.
"Oh, rather ... His food means a lot to him, you know."
"This," said her husband, "is approaching the obscene. I dine off tepid wash and raw fish, I am tormented by the production of a once luscious fillet deliberately rendered unfit for human consumption, and I am deprived of my now ravening appetite by the nauseating reek from the shock of whose assault I am still trying to rally my olfactory nerves. All this I endure with that unfailing good——"
"Will you be quiet?" said his wife. "How can I—-"
"No, I won't," said Berry. "My finer feelings are outraged. And that upon an empty stomach. I shall write home and ask to be taken away. I shall——"
"Katharine," said Daphne, "I can't hear you because that fool Berry is talking, but Boy's getting out an advertisement, and we're going to ... Oh, are you? I thought you said you'd given it up ... Another nineteen shillings' worth? Well, here's luck, anyway ... Yes, of course. But I daren't hope ... Good-bye." She replaced the receiver and turned to me. "Katharine's going to start advertising again."
"Is she?" I grunted. "Well, I'll bet she doesn't beat this. Listen.
COOK, capable, experienced, is offered for three months abnormal wages, every luxury and a leisurely existence: electric cooker: constant hot water: kitchen-maid: separate bedroom: servants' hall: late breakfast: town and country: followers welcomed.—Mrs. Pleydell, 7, Cholmondeley Street, Mayfair: 'Phone, Mayfair 9999."