“It’s so good of you to have us without any notice—so uncommonly jolly for us. We’ve been so tired of hotel cooking, after the steamer.”
“Yes,” chimed in the other, “it grew to be almost as tiresome to us as the beastly tinned food we lived on when we were in Africa.”
“Oh, have you been in Africa lately?” asked Mrs. Callender with composure, although she and her husband felt the piercing of a mortal dart, and did not dare to look at each other.
“Yes, Kennard and I were on an exploring expedition last year, accidentally; it’s quite a long tale—but we lived on tinned soups and meats, and even plum pudding—fancy it in the hot climate!—until even the smell of them sickened us. We’ve not been able to touch a bit of tinned food since.”
“Canned things—or tinned, as you call them—are very useful in emergencies,” said Mr. Callender with idiotic solemnity. “You know you have to eat them sometimes—when you can’t—help yourself, you know. Oh, yes, in emergencies tinned things are very useful—if you like ’em.”
Mr. Kennard laughed heartily, as if at some delicate joke. “Ah, yes, yes, if you like them—if you like them, Warburton, yes—mind that, yes!”
“Excuse me for a moment,” said Mrs. Callender with graceful deliberation, sweeping slowly out of the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind her rushing into the kitchen wildly. The fortunes of war were against her, but win the victory she would. There had to be some way out of this!
“Don’t dish up a thing, Catherine,” she ordered breathlessly. “It is no use; the gentlemen never eat anything canned. I’ve got to think up something else.” Daunted by the grim face of the insulted cook, she turned appealingly to the waitress, a young and venturesome person, as woman to woman. “You must know of something I could do, Nelly!”
“The Warings, ma’am—”
“You told me you’d been there, and that everything they had was cooked for their own dinner.”