"That," she said, "may be all very well for a man, but women don't care for that feeling. They like their food light but stimulating."
"They do," I said, "and they prefer it all brought in on one tray and at irregular hours. Lord DEVONPORT'S scheme is to them a sort of wicked abundance. To a man it is—"
"Plenty and to spare," she said. "Why, you won't have to tighten your belt even by one hole. Now admit, if you hadn't known you were being rationed you'd never have found it out."
"I will admit," I said, "that if the privations we have suffered this last week in the matter of beefsteaks and that kind of food are the worst that can happen to us we shan't have much to complain of—but I should like a chop to-night instead of a rissole."
"You can call it a chop if you like, but it's going to be a cutlet."
"Well, anyhow," I said, "we don't seem to be doing as much as we might for Lord DEVONPORT."
"You're wrong," she said; "I'm keeping hens in the stable-yard."
"Hens? What do you know about hens?"
"For the matter of that, what do you?"
"That's not the question," I said, "but I'll answer it all the same. I know that most hens are called Buff Orpingtons, and that they never lay any eggs unless you put a china egg in their nest just to coax them along and rouse their ambition. Francesca, have you put a china egg where our Buff Orpingtons can see it?"