"It's early for cake and pickled oysters," said the Idiot. "And for chicken salad and wedding-cake, and for lemonade and punch, and for lobster and egg-nog, and for ice-cream and pâté-de-foie-gras."
"H'm!" said Mr. Pedagog, reflectively. "That's true."
"Quite so," observed Mr. Whitechoker, brushing off his vest, upon which the ashes of his cigar had rested. "Especially for the punch."
"There was no punch in my house," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Indeed, I always served a very simple luncheon. We did have chicken salad, of course, but the chicken was good and the salad was crisp—"
"I'd swear to it," said the Idiot.
"And we had egg-nog, but there was more egg than nog in it—"
"Again I'd swear to it," said the Idiot, smacking his lips.
"And as for the lobsters, nobody ever complained—"
"He'd have been a lobster himself who would," said the Idiot. "But that does not prove that no one ever suffered."
"And as for the pickled oysters, no one ever suffered from them that I knew of," continued the good lady. "They are harmless eaten in moderation."