“Cutlets. (Then there would be a short history of the lives of the lamb and the butcher who killed it—very unfavourable to the butcher.)
“Pudding. Batter made of eggs a week old, margarine, milk (chock-full of germs), flour—Oh, here she comes.”
We were talking like monkeys when the bride was announced. She was small and pale and pretty. We gave her tea, and then invited her to unbosom herself, which she did.
“Do you find it awfully dull when your husband goes down town in the morning?” she asked.
We looked at one another, and Mrs. Beehive, who is never at a loss, replied pompously, “No, I can’t say I have ever felt dull for a moment; not even when I was first married. I was always a great housekeeper, and attended to everything myself; and after I had paid the books and been to give my orders at the shops, the morning seemed to have flown.”
“Oh dear!” said the poor bride. Polly made a comforting little muddle with the cups and winked at me.
“And in the afternoons, of course, there were social duties,” continued good Mrs. Beehive. “My husband and I were, I think I may say, exceedingly popular, even in the early days.”
“Oh dear!” sighed the bride again, “but this is the first social duty I have had at all yet.”
“Well, don’t bear it unaided,” I said; “do let us help you if we can.”
“You don’t care for fancy work, do you?” asked Polly.