In a whisper as agonized, she explained the situation. He reflected a moment.
“Any pie, or cake in the house? fruit, fresh or preserved?”
“Yes, all,” impatiently. “But it isn’t a question of dessert. There is literally nothing for dinner.”
“I understand! I have it! We’ll be fashionable for once. Set on sardines, cheese, pie, cake, claret and sauterne, and a dish or two of fruit. Make a royally strong cup of coffee to wind up with, and call it luncheon!”
In fifteen minutes the guests were summoned to the dining-room, where the pretty hostess, in a becoming demi-toilette, welcomed them as the friends of her husband and brother, and presided over the collation from which not one of them perceived that anything was lacking, like a gracious little queen. A lisp of apology would have spoiled all, and she had tact enough to avoid the danger.
“That man is a Napoleon in small matters!” said I, when she told me the story. “If he never says another good thing, his—‘Call it luncheon,’ should win him lasting fame with all housekeepers who hearken to the tale of his masterly strategy.”
I have given the anecdote at length, that the reader may have the benefit of all the lessons it conveys.
First—Assure yourself, whenever it is practicable, that the materials for dinner are in the house several hours before the time for serving it arrives.
Secondly—It is a wise plan to keep sardines, canned salmon and lobster, cheese, and potted meats on hand always, with preserved fruits, and not to let the stores of cake and crackers run too low.
Thirdly—There is scarcely an imaginable domestic disaster on an ordinary scale, that cannot be rectified, or, at least, modified into passableness by presence of mind and energetic action. “Call it luncheon,” is a capital motto in other and graver perplexities than the non-arrival of a day’s marketing, and where higher interests are concerned than the feasting or fasting of half a dozen people.