The loaf, the bread-knife, the butter, the marmalade, all stood on
the table, and the kettle was boiling. I set the tea to draw, and
then dashed to the door, bowed appetisingly to the visitors, showed
them to the tables with a winning smile (which was to be extra),
seated the children maternally on the steps and laid napkins before
them, dashed back to the kitchen, cut the thin bread-and-butter, and
brought it with the marmalade, asked my customers if they desired
cream, and told them it was extra, went back and brought a tray with
tea, boiling water, milk, and cream. Lowering my voice to an
English sweetness, and dropping a few h's ostentatiously as I
answered questions, I poured five cups of tea, and four mugs for the
children, and cut more bread-and-butter, for they were all eating
like wolves. They praised the butter. I told them it was a
specialty of the house. They requested muffins. With a smile of
heavenly sweetness tinged with regret, I replied that Saturday was
our muffin day; Saturday, muffins; Tuesday, crumpets; Thursday,
scones; and Friday, tea-cakes. This inspiration sprang into being
full grown, like Pallas from the brain of Zeus. While they were
regretting that they had come on a plain bread-and-butter day, I
retired to the kitchen and made out a bill for presentation to the
oldest man of the party.
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