“Dripping is, er—brown! So called because it drips from the meat in the process of cooking. It is inferior to lard, and aspires to no bladder, but lives in odd receptacles, such as jam jars. It is supposed to supply an unconquerable temptation to a plain cook, and there are fiends in the shape of men, who are said to spend their life tempting cooks to sell the dripping. Katrine used to see dripping in the eye of every unknown man who opened the gate. I never heard her make any allegations about lard. Does that distinction afford you any illumination?”
Grizel sighed, and turned to the door with an air of resignation.
“Well, good-bye, my loved one! Be very good to me, for you won’t have me long. If I’ve got to order meals, I shall never be able to eat them. I foresee that. I never heard so much about grease in my life. Is there nothing decent one could use instead?”
Martin hesitated.
“I believe—sometimes—butter!”
Grizel waved a triumphant hand.
“Of course! Butter! Why couldn’t you have said that before? Nice, clean, fresh butter. I’ll tell her I allow nothing else. What a fuss over nothing! ... Martin, you’re wearing a green tie. I’ve never seen you in green before... Darling! you’re adorable in green...”