CHAPTER XXV.
FLORA’S DINNER.
Lyndsay had some literary friends in Edinburgh, whose kindly intercourse greatly enhanced the pleasure of a month’s residence near the metropolis of Scotland. The foremost among these was M——, the poet, who, like Lyndsay, was a native of the Orkney Islands. Having been entertained at the house of this gentleman, he naturally wished to return his courtesy.
“Flora,” said he, addressing his wife, the day after their visit to the Greggs, “do you think you could manage a dinner for a few friends?”
Flora dropped her work, and opened her eyes in blank dismay at the very idea of such a thing.
“What, in these poor lodgings? and Mrs. Waddel such an impracticable, helpless old body? My dear John, it is impossible!”
Now, Lyndsay had set his heart upon the dinner, which he thought not only very possible, but could see no difficulty at all about it. Men never look behind the scenes, or consider the minor details of such things; and on these trifling items, in their eyes, the real success or failure of most domestic arrangements depend. But Flora had been behind the scenes, and knew all about it, to her cost, for it was with the greatest difficulty she could prevail upon Mrs. Waddel to cook the plainest food. Mrs. Waddel declared she could “na fash hersel about; that dainties were a’ verra weel, but the meat ate jest as sweet without them.” The idea of such a tardy mistress of the kitchen cooking a dinner for company, appeared perfectly ridiculous to Flora, who knew that any attempt of the kind must end in mortification and disappointment.
“Flora,” said Lyndsay, quite seriously, “I am certain that you could manage it quite well, if you would only make the trial.”
“It is from no unwillingness on my part that I object to your entertaining your friends. But there is but one cooking range in the house, and that one small and inconvenient, and I fear the cooking utensils are limited to the dimensions of the fire.”