This one of the four ladies could
not then, Francesca decided, be kind; so she handed her the macaroni,
being unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely.
It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared for
maccaroni, especially not this long, worm-shaped variety. She found it
difficult to eat--slippery, wriggling off her fork, making her look,
she felt, undignified when, having got it as she supposed into her
mouth, ends of it yet hung out. Always, too, when she ate it she was
reminded of Mr. Fisher. He had during their married life behaved very
much like maccaroni. He had slipped, he had wriggled, he had made her
feel undignified, and when at last she had got him safe, as she
thought, there had invariably been little bits of him that still, as it
were, hung out.
Francesca from the sideboard watched Mrs. Fisher's way with
macaroni gloomily, and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take
her knife to it and chop it small.
Mrs. Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of the
stuff. She was aware that knives in this connection were improper, but
one did finally lose patience. Maccaroni was never allowed to appear
on her table in London. Apart from its tiresomeness she did not even
like it, and she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again.
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