My disappointment
was agreeable. One can always imagine a comic dinner.
I dined once with a newly married couple who had just returned from
their honeymoon. We ought to have sat down at eight o'clock; we sat
down instead at half-past ten. The cook had started drinking in the
morning; by seven o'clock she was speechless. The wife, giving up
hope at a quarter to eight, had cooked the dinner herself. The other
guests were sympathised with, but all I got was congratulation.
"He'll write something so funny about this dinner," they said.
You might have thought the cook had got drunk on purpose to oblige
me. I have never been able to write anything funny about that
dinner; it depresses me to this day, merely thinking of it.
We finished up with a cold trifle and some excellent coffee that
Robina brewed over a lamp on the table while Dick and Veronica
cleared away. It was one of the jolliest little dinners I have ever
eaten; and, if Robina's figures are to be trusted, cost exactly six-
and-fourpence for the five of us. There being no servants about, we
talked freely and enjoyed ourselves. I began once at a dinner to
tell a good story about a Scotchman, when my host silenced me with a
look. He is a kindly man, and had heard the story before. He
explained to me afterwards, over the walnuts, that his parlourmaid
was Scotch and rather touchy. The talk fell into the discussion of
Home Rule, and again our host silenced us.
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