"Yes, sir, but I just thought maybe you would be delayed or the car would run off the track or you'd stop to talk to some friends, so I wouldn't begin to cook until I clapped my two eyes on you."
At first we used to laugh and say that it was her respect for food. Then it worked on our tempers and grew anything but funny. It got to be exasperating, infuriating, maddening.
"Now, Aubrey," I said, "it has come to the battle with the cook. Shall we submit to petty tyranny or shall we strike?"
"I'll tell you what," said the Angel. "I haven't quite made up my mind whether Mary is really amenable to kindness or whether she takes us for suckers."
"Oh," I gasped. I had never taken myself for a "sucker" before, and even in such good company as that of my husband it gave me a jar to hear the possibility mentioned.
"I am convinced of one thing," he went on, "Mary has been badly spoiled, and, while I have no objection to her ruling us in any way she likes, I am going to compel her to obey orders when she gets them."
"Oh, be careful!" I cried.
"I'm going to. But first I am going to investigate the labyrinths of her
mind. If it is that she respects food more than she does our feelings,
I'll do one thing. If it is that kindness won't work, I'll try severity.
But I'm going to make that old woman obey me and have dinner on time."
The Angel delivered this alarming ultimatum without raising his voice and with no more emphasis than he would use in saying:
"May I trouble you for the salt?"