In silence the traces of the course which had provoked the outburst were removed, clean plates were set before us, and the footman advanced with a dish of nauseous-looking fritters.

Daphne instinctively recoiled.

“Hullo,” said Berry.  “Another gas attack?”

With an effort my sister recovered herself and took one with a shaking hand.  Loyally Jill followed her example, and, with tears running down her cheeks, induced a glutinous slab to quit the silver, to which it clung desperately.

I declined the delicacy.

With compressed lips the servant offered it to my brother-in-law.

Berry shook his head.

“Mother wouldn’t like me to,” he said.  “But I can see it’s very tasty.”  He turned to his wife.  “What a wonderful thing perfume is!  You know, the smell of burnt fat always makes me think of the Edgware Road at dusk.”

“Hush,” said I, consulting the menu. “De mortuis. Those were banana fritters.  That slimy crust enshrined the remains of a once succulent fruit.”

“What?” said Berry.  “Like beans in amber?  How very touching!  I suppose undertakers are easier than cooks.  Never mind.  It’s much cheaper.  I shan’t want to be reminded of food for several days now.”  He looked across the table to Daphne.  “After what I’ve just seen, I feel I can give the savoury a miss.  Do you agree, darling?  Or has the fritter acted as an aperitif?”

My sister addressed herself to Jill.

“Don’t eat it, dear.  It’s—­it’s not very nice.”  She rose.  “Shall we go?”

Gloomily we followed her into the library, where I opened all the windows and Berry lighted a huge cigar, in the hope of effacing the still pungent memory of the unsavoury sweet.  Gradually it faded away....

Three weeks had passed since the mistress of our kitchen, who had reigned uninterruptedly for seven years, had been knocked down by a taxi and sustained a broken leg.  Simple though the fracture fortunately was, at least another nine weeks must elapse before she could attempt to resume her duties, and we were in evil case.  Every day we became more painfully aware of the store which we had unconsciously set by decently-cooked food.  As time went on, the physical and mental disorder, consequent upon Mrs. Mason’s accident, became more and more pronounced.  All topics of conversation became subservient to the burning question of filling the void occasioned by her absence.  Worst of all, dissatisfaction was rampant in the servants’ hall, and Daphne’s maid had hinted broadly that, if a cook was not shortly forthcoming, resignations would be—­an intimation which made us desperate.  Moreover, in another month we were due to leave Town and repair to White Ladies.  There, deep in the country, with no restaurants or clubs to fall back upon, we should be wholly at the mercy of whoever controlled the preparation of our food, and, unless the situation improved considerably, the prospect was far from palatable.