Eveleen spoke, her words coming from her lips like drops of vitriol.
“Don’t you think, Norah, that you had better favour all three of these gentlemen with your delightful company? It would be so nice—for them, and for you—and it would save further complications.” She turned to Audrey and Doris. “Has it not occurred to you two girls that we are rather in the way?”
Both Audrey and Doris burst out laughing. I do not know what at. There did not seem to be much merriment in their mirth. While they were still making those somewhat discordant sounds, Major Paul Tibbet entered the room.
CHAPTER X.
THE COMPROMISE
Everybody that afternoon seemed to be bringing something. We might have been spreading broadcast an announcement that each caller was expected to provide himself with an offering as evidence of good faith. The moment I set eyes on Major Tibbet I perceived that he had his. It took the shape of a brown-paper parcel of some size, and, apparently, some weight, since he bore it in front of him, on both arms, as if it were a baby. As he is not the kind of person one would expect to see carry a parcel of any kind, the effect was a little funny.
Audrey’s and Doris’ forced laughter seemed to give him a false impression of what was going on. He broke into what he probably intended should be a smile of the extremest affability.
“I come at a fortunate moment, to find you laughing! full of fun! Nothing so delightful as the merriment of young ladies. I thoroughly enjoy a joke, myself.” He addressed Audrey. “I have here a trifle which I trust will not meet with the disapprobation of Mrs O’Brady.”
“It doesn’t look as if it were a trifle.”
“Between ourselves, it’s not—weighs twenty pounds if an ounce—magnificent bird—pick of the market.” His voice assumed a tone of great solemnity. “It’s a truffled turkey—prepared by my own chef, with his own hands, after a recipe of his own. A chef-d’œuvre; an unique, Miss Audrey, an unique!”
The Major makes a god of his belly. The only things he really cares for—besides the decoration of his ridiculous old person—are things to eat and drink. He keeps the menus of his dinners. He can give you the history—with all the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed—of meals he ate thirty years ago; with the names of all the dishes, detailed accounts of how they were cooked, and realistic descriptions of how they tasted. It gives me a feeling of having over-eaten myself to hear him talk.