"Look here," I said, stabbing at a plate of petit pois (1911) and mis-cueing badly, "what about having Uncle Tom to stay for a few weeks?"
"Last time he came," replied Margery, "you said that nothing would induce you to ask him again. You haven't forgotten his chronic dyspepsia, have you?"
"Of course not," I retorted, looking a little pained at such flagrant gaucherie; "but you can't cast off a respectable blood relation because he happens to live on charcoal and hot water."
I delivered an irritable attack on a lentil pudding.
"Right-O," agreed Marjory. "And I'll ask Joan as well. She won't be able to come until Friday, because she's having some teeth extracted on Thursday."
After all Marjory is not altogether without perception.
Dinner over I wrote, in my best style, a short spontaneous invitation to Uncle Tom. Margery wrote a more discursive one to Joan.
"I think we ought to celebrate this," I suggested. "Let's be extravagant."
"All right," said Margery. "What shall it be, champagne or potatoes?"
Two days later I received the following:—