She seated herself in the patients' chair and laying a bundle of newspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.
"Thank you, Miss Oman," said I. "It is very good of you to look in on me. I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a trifling matter."
She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.
"Never mind about the trouble," she exclaimed tartly.
"What—is—it—that—you—want—to—ask—me about?"
I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as I proceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over her countenance.
"I don't see why you need have been so mysterious about it," she said glumly.
"I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a mess of the affair. It's all very fine to assume a lofty scorn of the pleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really good feed, especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the order of the day."
"Coarsely put," said Miss Oman, "but perfectly true."
"Very well. Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she will probably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat on it, and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the house upside down in getting it ready. So I thought of having a cold spread and getting the things from outside. But I don't want it to look as if I had been making enormous preparations."
"They won't think the things came down from heaven," said Miss Oman.