"Cabbagee, cauliflow', gleen pea an' dly pea, Flench bean, bload bean, spallowglass!" he chanted. "No, not asparagus; but I felt so like old Ah Chee I couldn't stop! Just give your orders, ma'am. Whatever old Gordon didn't do on this place, he certainly left us a good vegetable garden."
"He did indeed," Aileen said. "Now, having dangled all these before my eyes, tell me what ought to be used first."
"Cauliflow'," said Tom promptly. "They're blooming like the rose, only more so."
"I'm so glad—it doesn't have to be shelled!" said his wife. "Peas or beans would have embarrassed me this morning. Where's the cookery book? I never can remember whether it goes into boiling water or cold."
"Does it matter, so long as you leave it there long enough?"
"I believe it matters exceedingly, though I don't see why," said she.
"Mere red tape," said Tom scornfully. "Why not try both ways, and see which comes out best?"
"Think of your feelings on the day when it happened to be wrong," said his wife absently, puckering her brows over her book.
Tom scalded his dish-cloth, wrung it out, and hung it on the rail he had erected for towels.
"There, that's done," he said. "Now I'd better go and catch a cauliflower, since my suggestions only meet with scorn. Want any potatoes?"