Mrs. All. I never do. Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself. He appreciates it. Now some men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it's you or the Cook. My husband does.
Mrs. Ard. I wonder how you find time to do it. I'm sure I should never—
Mrs. All. Oh, it takes time, of course—but what does that matter when you've nothing to do? Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?—because that's a great improvement!
Mrs. Ard. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything—and that's eggs.
Mrs. All. (with elegant languor). I hardly ever eat an egg. Oysters, now, I'm very fond of—fried, that is.
Mrs. Ard. They're very nice done in the real shells. Or on scollops. We have silver—or rather—(with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour), silver-plated ones.
Mrs. All. How funny—so have we! (Both women feel an increase of liking for one another.) I like them cooked in milk, too.
[The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they proceed, as usual, to the subject of ailments.
Mrs. Ard. My doctor does do me good, I must say—he never lets me get ill. He just sees your liver's all right, and then he feeds you up.
Mrs. All. That's like my doctor; he always tells me, if he didn't keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time. That's how I come to be here. I always run down at the end of every Season.