“What—Is—Lard?”
The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold.
“You goose! What on earth are you talking about?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. And how on earth am I to find out! I’ve been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or don’t I, and why should I not, and for goodness’ sake how does it differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly. I thought I’d better find out at once.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t come running to me for such information. I’ve got to buy the lard, remember, and I shan’t be able to afford it, if I’m interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine...”
“Then she’d have a reprieve, and I’d have done a good deed. You can’t seriously have begun yet, and this is so deadly important. You might spare five minutes to instruct your poor wife.”
Grizel perched herself on the corner of the table, and tilted the boudoir cap at a beguiling angle. Martin stood with his back to the fire and adopted a professorial air.
“Lard,” he said sententiously, “is a substance compounded of a whitey grease, contained for the purposes of trade in balloons or bladders of skins—”
Grizel’s face showed a network of horrified lines.
“How exceedingly disagreeable! I shall certainly not allow it... And what is dripping?”