"Invariably; and therefore the little silver fork is usually bent or broken, while the piece of toast springs unscratched into the air and lands upon the carpet."
"You speak feelingly," said Paul.
"I have learnt in suffering what I teach in ordinary conversation. The fish-fork is also a source of much distress to me."
"How is that? It never strikes me as an instrument of destruction."
"Well, you see, it is in this way," explained Miss Carnaby. "Some people have fish-forks as well as fish-knives—sort of half-bred dessert-forks, don't you know? with ivory handles. Now, we don't have these at home—we use ordinary silver forks, so I am not prepared for them."
"I see; they take you unawares."
"Precisely. The consequence is I use a common fork for my fish; and then, when I get to the second entrée, my sin finds me out, and I am left with nothing on my hands but a large knife and this nasty little half-caste dessert-fork."
"Whatever do you do?" asked the amused Paul.
"I fling myself upon the mercy of the man who has taken me in; and I confess I have never found my confidence misplaced. He invariably gives me his own silver fork, and, if he is a brave man, asks one of the footmen for another for himself; but if he is only of a normal courage, he eats his own entrée with my fish-fork, in shame and confusion of face."
"You might write a book on the Sorrows of Dining," suggested Paul.