Hubert Temperley turned away in annoyance. He used to be amused by his wife’s flippancy before her marriage, but he had long since grown to dislike it. He retired to get out some wine, while Hadria went forward to welcome the guest, who now came in from the garden, where he had lingered to talk to the children.
“I am delighted to see you, Mr. Fleming; but I am grieved to say that we have unluckily only a wretched luncheon to give you, and after your long walk over the fields too! I am so sorry. The fact is we are left, this morning, with a gaping larder, at the mercy of a haughty and inconstant butcher, who grinds down his helpless dependents without mercy, overbearing creature that he is! We must ask you to be very tolerant.”
“Oh! please don’t trouble about that; it doesn’t matter in the least,” cried Mr. Fleming, pulling at his yellowish whiskers. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, of medium height, dressed in knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket that had seen some service.
“What is the difficulty?” asked Hubert.
“I was explaining to Mr. Fleming how inhospitably we are forced to treat him, on account of that traitor Sanders.”
Hubert gave a gesture of annoyance.
“I suppose there is something cold in the house.”
“Pudding, perhaps,” said his wife hopelessly. “It is most unlucky.”
“My dear, surely there must be something cold that isn’t pudding.”
“I fear, very little; but I will go and see the cook, though, alas! she is not easy to inspire as regards her particular business. She is extremely entertaining as a conversationalist, but I think she was meant for society rather than the kitchen. I am sure society would be more diverting if she were in it.”