Miss Grimshaw laughed. "Do you remember that little dinner party Mr. French—my uncle, I mean—gave in January to Colonel Bingham and the Smith-Jacksons?"
"Yes."
"You remember how Colonel Bingham praised the pheasants? Well, they were his own pheasants."
"His own pheasants!"
"Moriarty poached them."
Mr. Dashwood exploded.
"I did not know at the time," went on Miss Grimshaw virtuously. "I entrusted the marketing to Mrs. Driscoll. I explained to her privately that we would have to be very economical. She quite understood. I will say for the Irish that they are quicker in the uptake than any other people I know. She said she could make ends meet on two pounds ten a week, and she has done so. More, she has made them lap over. I am not very good at the price of things. Still, pheasants at a shilling each seemed to me very cheap. Of course, I thought most probably she was dealing with some man who got the things in some contraband way, and I suppose it was very wicked of me, but—the pheasants were very nice. Then there were vegetables.
"You can't poach vegetables?"
"I think I said before," went on Miss Grimshaw, "that the Irish were quicker than any other people I know in the uptake, and I'm very much afraid that Moriarty has uptaken, not only all the potatoes that have come to our table this winter, but the turnips as well."
Again Mr. Dashwood exploded.