"By the way," I asked, "did you have a good dinner yesterday?"
Greenwood looked me straight in the eyes. There is a saying that a liar cannot look you straight in the eyes. Discredit it. "The dinner was excellent," he replied. "I wish you had been there to try it. And every single thing at pre-war prices."
But that night I came across Mrs. Greenwood as she emerged from a Red Cross working party loaded with mufflers and mittens.
"Glad to hear these hard times don't affect your household," I began diplomatically.
Mrs. Greenwood smiled. "What has Oswald been telling you?"
"Nothing, except that he had an excellent dinner yesterday."
"I wasn't there," said Mrs. Greenwood; "I went to my mother's. You see, Cook conscientiously followed Oswald's instructions. He had sardines, Worcester sauce, macaroni, and tinned pork and beans. I can't make out quite which of the two was the first to give notice afterwards. Perhaps it was what you call a dead heat. Only, unless Oswald shouted, 'Take a month's notice,' when he heard the cook's step in the hall, I am inclined to think that Cook got there first."
Now in the train I recommend tinned pork and beans with Worcester sauce as a cheap and nourishing food in war-time.
Greenwood says nothing but glares at me. For once in his life he cannot rise to the occasion.