“And lobsters—oh my, what lobsters!”
Mrs Magens could stand it no longer.
“The cares of a household do not degrade a woman, Mr Bromley. B’ your leave, I’ll go and see them lobsters properly served up.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to partake your meal?”
“Of course,” screeched Mrs Magens from the adjacent kitchen, where, had Bromley seen her, he would have discovered the skirts of her garment already pinned round the waist of the neat-handed Phyllis.
It was not very long before the repast was ready, and Bromley sat, opposite his hostess, at a little table spread with a clean cloth, decorated with some spoons rescued from Mr Commissioner, a nickel cruet-stand, and two carnations.
“I do love this new Russian fashion,” observed Mrs Magens, as a species of grace.
Half a lobster fell before her.
“In that carpet-bag, I have ventured to bring, for Angelo, a few bottles of sherry, of a particular quality, lately sent me by some friends from the country.”
“How very thoughtful! Don’t trouble yourself—allow me.” The phraseology was less flowery, and the bottle was soon uncorked.