“Not so loud,” whispered James Welsh, “or she will hear. You must provide enough to eat, of course. Send out for steak.”
“Nonsense, James; it is lunch time already. She must manage with scraps, and them cold scraps are wholesome. What doesn’t poison fattens.”
“You couldn’t, I suppose, have the scraps warmed, or”—somewhat louder, with a flash of inspiration—“or converted into a haricot?”
“How can you talk like this, James? Go on, suggest that they shall be made into a mayonnaise next. To have hot meat means a fire, and there is none to speak of in the kitchen.”
“Only dead scraps! My dear Tryphœna, she belongs to a titled family, a long way off and disowned, you understand, but still—there is a title in the family and—scraps!”
“What else will you have, James? Had you been home yesterday for dinner, there would have been joint, roast; but as you were not, I ate cold meat. Now there are only scraps.”
“Perhaps if you were to turn out the Noyeau jelly in a shape, Tryphœna, it would give the lunch a more distinguished look.”
“Scraps of cold boiled mutton and Noyeau jelly! No, that won’t do. The jelly must be warmed and melted into the shape, and take three hours to cool.”
“I wish I had taken her to the Holborn Restaurant,” groaned Welsh; “what difficulties encumber domestic arrangements!”
“Without a cook—yes,” added his wife.