Years
of practice, reflected Mrs. Fisher, chopping it up, years of actual
living in Italy, would be necessary to learn the exact trick. Browning
managed maccaroni wonderfully. She remembered watching him one day
when he came to lunch with her father, and a dish of it had been
ordered as a compliment to his connection with Italy. Fascinating, the
way it went in. No chasing round the plate, no slidings off the fork,
no subsequent protrusions of loose ends--just one dig, one whisk, one
thrust, one gulp, and lo, yet another poet had been nourished.
"Shall I go and seek the young lady?" asked Francesca, unable any
longer to look on a good maccaroni being cut with a knife.
Mrs. Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections with
difficulty. "She knows lunch is at half-past twelve," she said. "They
all know."
"She may be asleep," said Francesca. "The other ladies are
further away, but this one is not far away."
"Beat the gong again then," said Mrs. Fisher.
What manners, she though; what, what manners. It was not an
hotel, and considerations were due. She must say she was surprised at
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who had not looked like somebody unpunctual. Lady
Caroline, too--she had seemed amiable and courteous, whatever else she
might be. From the other one, of course, she expected nothing.
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