What filthy weather! Lord, I’m frozen. ”
He stamped his feet and blew through his hands.
Automatically Molly picked up the coat that he had thrown in a Giles-like manner onto the oak chest. She put it on a hanger, taking out of the stuffed pockets a muffler, a newspaper, a ball of string, and the morning’s correspondence which he had shoved in pell mell. Moving into the kitchen, she laid down the articles on the dresser and put the kettle on the gas.
“Did you get the netting?” she asked. “What ages you’ve been.”
“It wasn’t the right kind. Wouldn’t have been any good for us. I went on to another dump, but that wasn’t any good, either. What have you been doing with yourself? Nobody turned up yet, I suppose?”
“Mrs. Boyle isn’t coming till tomorrow, anyway.”
“Major Metcalf and Mr. Wren ought to be here today.”
“Major Metcalf sent a card to say he wouldn’t be here till tomorrow.”
“Then that leaves us and Mr. Wren for dinner. What do you think he’s like? Correct sort of retired civil servant is my idea.”
“No, I think he’s an artist.”
“In that case,” said Giles, “we’d better get a week’s rent in advance.”
“Oh, no, Giles, they bring luggage. If they don’t pay we hang on to their luggage.”
“And suppose their luggage is stones wrapped up in newspaper? The truth is, Molly, we don’t in the least know what we’re up against in this business. I hope they don’t spot what beginners we are.”
“Mrs. Boyle is sure to,” said Molly. “She’s that kind of woman.”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen her?”
Molly turned away. She spread a newspaper on the table, fetched some cheese, and set to work to grate it.
“What’s this?” inquired her husband.
“It’s going to be Welsh rarebit,” Molly informed him. “Bread crumbs and mashed potatoes and just a teeny weeny bit of cheese to justify its name.”
“Aren’t you a clever cook?” said her admiring husband.
“I wonder. I can do one thing at a time. It’s assembling them that needs so much practice. Breakfast is the worst.”
“Why?”
“Because it all happens at once—eggs and bacon and hot milk and coffee and toast. The milk boils over, or the toast burns, or the bacon frizzles, or the eggs go hard. You have to be as active as a scalded cat watching everything at once.”
“I shall have to creep down unobserved tomorrow morning and watch this scalded-cat impersonation.”
“The kettle’s boiling,” said Molly. “Shall we take the tray into the library and hear the wireless? It’s almost time for the news.”
“As we seem to be going to spend almost the whole of our time in the kitchen, we ought to have a wireless there, too.”
“Yes. How nice kitchens are. I love this kitchen. I think it’s far and away the nicest room in the house. I like the dresser and the plates, and I simply love the lavish feeling that an absolutely enormous kitchen range gives you—though, of course, I’m thankful I haven’t got to cook on it.”
“I suppose a whole year’s fuel ration would go in one day.”
“Almost certainly, I should say. But think of the great joints that were roasted in it—sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton. Colossal copper preserving pans full of homemade strawberry jam with pounds and pounds of sugar going into it. What a lovely, comfortable age the Victorian age was. Look at the furniture upstairs, large and solid and rather ornate—but, oh!—the heavenly comfort of it, with lots of room for the clothes one used to have, and every drawer sliding in and out so easily. Do you remember that smart modern flat we were lent? Everything built in and sliding—only nothing slid—it always stuck. And the doors pushed shut—only they never stayed shut, or if they did shut they wouldn’t open.”
“Yes, that’s the worst of gadgets. If they don’t go right, you’re sunk.”
“Well, come on, let’s hear the news.”
The news consisted mainly of
He stamped his feet and blew through his hands.
Automatically Molly picked up the coat that he had thrown in a Giles-like manner onto the oak chest. She put it on a hanger, taking out of the stuffed pockets a muffler, a newspaper, a ball of string, and the morning’s correspondence which he had shoved in pell mell. Moving into the kitchen, she laid down the articles on the dresser and put the kettle on the gas.
“Did you get the netting?” she asked. “What ages you’ve been.”
“It wasn’t the right kind. Wouldn’t have been any good for us. I went on to another dump, but that wasn’t any good, either. What have you been doing with yourself? Nobody turned up yet, I suppose?”
“Mrs. Boyle isn’t coming till tomorrow, anyway.”
“Major Metcalf and Mr. Wren ought to be here today.”
“Major Metcalf sent a card to say he wouldn’t be here till tomorrow.”
“Then that leaves us and Mr. Wren for dinner. What do you think he’s like? Correct sort of retired civil servant is my idea.”
“No, I think he’s an artist.”
“In that case,” said Giles, “we’d better get a week’s rent in advance.”
“Oh, no, Giles, they bring luggage. If they don’t pay we hang on to their luggage.”
“And suppose their luggage is stones wrapped up in newspaper? The truth is, Molly, we don’t in the least know what we’re up against in this business. I hope they don’t spot what beginners we are.”
“Mrs. Boyle is sure to,” said Molly. “She’s that kind of woman.”
“How do you know? You haven’t seen her?”
Molly turned away. She spread a newspaper on the table, fetched some cheese, and set to work to grate it.
“What’s this?” inquired her husband.
“It’s going to be Welsh rarebit,” Molly informed him. “Bread crumbs and mashed potatoes and just a teeny weeny bit of cheese to justify its name.”
“Aren’t you a clever cook?” said her admiring husband.
“I wonder. I can do one thing at a time. It’s assembling them that needs so much practice. Breakfast is the worst.”
“Why?”
“Because it all happens at once—eggs and bacon and hot milk and coffee and toast. The milk boils over, or the toast burns, or the bacon frizzles, or the eggs go hard. You have to be as active as a scalded cat watching everything at once.”
“I shall have to creep down unobserved tomorrow morning and watch this scalded-cat impersonation.”
“The kettle’s boiling,” said Molly. “Shall we take the tray into the library and hear the wireless? It’s almost time for the news.”
“As we seem to be going to spend almost the whole of our time in the kitchen, we ought to have a wireless there, too.”
“Yes. How nice kitchens are. I love this kitchen. I think it’s far and away the nicest room in the house. I like the dresser and the plates, and I simply love the lavish feeling that an absolutely enormous kitchen range gives you—though, of course, I’m thankful I haven’t got to cook on it.”
“I suppose a whole year’s fuel ration would go in one day.”
“Almost certainly, I should say. But think of the great joints that were roasted in it—sirloins of beef and saddles of mutton. Colossal copper preserving pans full of homemade strawberry jam with pounds and pounds of sugar going into it. What a lovely, comfortable age the Victorian age was. Look at the furniture upstairs, large and solid and rather ornate—but, oh!—the heavenly comfort of it, with lots of room for the clothes one used to have, and every drawer sliding in and out so easily. Do you remember that smart modern flat we were lent? Everything built in and sliding—only nothing slid—it always stuck. And the doors pushed shut—only they never stayed shut, or if they did shut they wouldn’t open.”
“Yes, that’s the worst of gadgets. If they don’t go right, you’re sunk.”
“Well, come on, let’s hear the news.”
The news consisted mainly of
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