Mrs. Ardleigh. It sounds delicious—­but you never can trust a Cook to carry out instructions exactly.

Mrs. All. I never do.  Whenever I want to have anything specially nice for my husband, I make a point of seeing to it myself.  He appreciates it.  Now some men, if you cook for them, never notice whether it’s you or the Cook.  My husband does.

Mrs. Ard. I wonder how you find time to do it.  I’m sure I should never—­

Mrs. All. Oh, it takes time, of course—­but what does that matter when you’ve nothing to do?  Did I mention just a small pinch of Cayenne pepper?—­because that’s a great improvement!

Mrs. Ard. I tell you what I like Cayenne pepper with, better than anything—­and that’s eggs.

Mrs. All. (with elegant languor).  I hardly ever eat an egg.  Oysters, now, I’m very fond of—­fried, that is.

Mrs. Ard. They’re very nice done in the real shells.  Or on scollops.  We have silver—­or rather—­(with a magnanimous impulse to tone down her splendour), silver-plated ones.

Mrs. All. How funny—­so have we! (Both women feel an increase of liking for one another.) I like them cooked in milk, too.

    [The first barrier being satisfactorily passed, they proceed,
    as usual, to the subject of ailments.

Mrs. Ard. My doctor does do me good, I must say—­he never lets me get ill.  He just sees your liver’s all right, and then he feeds you up.

Mrs. All. That’s like my doctor; he always tells me, if he didn’t keep on constantly building me up, I should go all to pieces in no time.  That’s how I come to be here.  I always run down at the end of every Season.

Mrs. Ard. (feeling that Mrs. ALLBUTT can’t be “anybody very particular” after all).  What—­to Margate?  Fancy!  Don’t you find you get tired of it?  I should.

Mrs. All. (with dignity).  I didn’t say I always went to Margate.  On the contrary I have never been here before, and shouldn’t be here now, if my doctor hadn’t told me it was my only chance.

Mrs. Ard. (reassured).  I only came down here on my little girl’s account.  One of those nasty croopy coughs, you know, and hoops with it.  But she’s almost well already.  I will say it’s a wonderful air.  Still, the worst of Margate is, one isn’t likely to meet a soul one knows!

Mrs. All. Well, that’s the charm of it—­to me.  One has enough of that during the Season.

Mrs. Ard. (recognising the superiority of this view).  Indeed one has.  What a whirl it has been to be sure!

[Illustration:  “Dear, dear! not a county family!”]

Mrs. All. The Season?  Why, I never remember one with so little doing.  Most of the best houses closed—­hardly a single really smart party—­one or two weddings—­and that’s positively all!