Mrs. Legion may go to church, but her real religion is concerned far more with her employers' bodies than with her own soul; and among the cardinal tenets of her faith is the necessity for dinner to be hot. You may have a cold lunch, but everything at dinner must have been cooked especially for that meal, all circling about the joint, or a bird, like satellite suns.
How to cleave such a rock of tradition? How to bring the old Tory into line with the new rules and yet not break her heart?
"And, Mrs. Legion," you say, not too boldly, and at the end of some other remark, "we'll have yesterday's leg of mutton for dinner to-night, with a salad."
"Cold mutton for dinner?" she replies dully.
"Yes—now the weather's getting warmer it's much nicer. It will save coal too. Just the mutton and a salad. No potatoes."
"No potatoes!" Surely the skies are falling, says her accent. You have been eating mashed potatoes, done with cream and a dash of beetroot in it, with cold meat, at lunch, for years.
"No, no—we mustn't eat potatoes any more. Haven't you heard?"
"I heard something about it, yes. But aren't we to eat those we've got?"
"No, we must give them away. Remember, just cold mutton and salad. And no toast." You are getting more confidence. "Never toast any more"—another light laugh—"never any more!"
And at dinner there are the cold mutton and salad all right; but to your horror you are asked first to eat a slice of salmon with two boiled potatoes.