Isobel stiffened.
“John,” she said finally “you are not going to keep chickens!”
“Certainly not!” I agreed hastily.
“But of course we can't kill Spotty,” said Isobel. “I call her Spotty because that seems such a perfect name for her. I telephoned for a roaster this morning, because you suggested having a roaster for dinner, John, and when the roaster came it was a live chicken! Imagine!”
“Horrors!” I exclaimed.
“I should think so!” agreed Isobel. “So there was nothing to do but 'phone the grocer to come and get the live roaster, but when I 'phoned, his grandmother was much worse, and the store was closed until she got better—or worse—and I couldn't bear to see the poor thing in the basket with its legs tied all that time, for there is no telling how long an old person like a grandmother will remain in the same condition, so I loosened the roaster in the cellar, and at a quarter past four I heard it cluck. It had laid an egg. I knew that the moment I heard it cluck.”
“Isobel,” I said, “you were born to be the wife of a chicken fancier! You shall eat that egg!”
“No, John,” she said, “you shall eat it. It is our first real egg, laid by our dear little Spotty, and you shall eat it.”
“No, Isobel,” I began, and then, as I saw how determined she was, I compromised. “Let us have the egg scrambled,” I said, “and each of us eat a part.”
“Very well,” said Isobel, “if you will promise not to kill Spotty. We will keep her forever and forever!”