"What!" I said, "you can stand there with those ridiculous red blobs in one hand and—and nothing in the other and talk like that."
"They're not blobs," said Honor, "they're peonies. And if that's all that's the matter I'm busy. I must get my flowers done before lunch."
"Bah!" I said, turning to my table again. "Hang lunch; I can't eat any. Italy, our staunch friend for years, throws in her lot with Austria, her hereditary foe, and you talk of lunch."
"It's macaroni cheese," said Honor calmly, "and you know you love it."
"Shade of Garibaldi! Macaroni! You dare," I said "to mix that miserable Italian trash with good honest English cheese on such a day, when Italy is mobilising her millions of soldiers and sailors against us and our Allies. It's rank sacrilege."
"Don't get excited," said Honor; "besides the cheese is American Cheddar."
"You trifle with me," I said. "If you send any of the wretched stuff in here I shall trample on it."
"Aren't you coming in to lunch, then?" she said.
"No, I'm not," I said. "I can't eat anything, and I doubt if I can write a word after this."
"What earthly difference would having lunch make?" said Honor.