The Drawing-room of a Margate Hotel. Time—Evening. Mrs. Ardleigh (of Balham), and Mrs. Allbutt (of Brondesbury), are discovered in the midst of a conversation, in which each is anxious both to impress the other, and ascertain how far she is a person to be cultivated. At present, they have not got beyond the discovery of a common bond in Cookery.
Mrs. Allbutt. You have the yolks of two eggs, I must tell you; squeeze the juice of half a lemon into it, and, when you boil the butter in the pan, make a paste of it with dry flour.
Mrs. Ardleigh. It sounds delicious—but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.
Mrs. All. I never do. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now some men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband does.
Mrs. Ard. I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure I should never——
Mrs. All. Oh, it takes time, of course—but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?—because that's a great improvement!
Mrs. Ard. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything—and that's eggs.
Mrs. All. (with elegant languor). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm very fond of—fried, that is.
Mrs. Ard. They're very nice done in the real shells. Or on scollops. We have silver—or rather—(with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour), silver-plated ones.
Mrs. All. How funny—so have we! (Both women feel an increase of liking for one another.) I like them cooked in milk, too.