"Y—e—s."
"She has told you so—she has said this herself?"
"Y—e—s—O! O! O! Let me go." And she bounded away—free—frightened—crying.
"How angry Violet will be; how cruel of him to make me tell him! What a little silly I've been!" and Madge began to think she had better have relied less on the strength of her newly-discovered womanhood; better have been still a child, even if she had gone that afternoon birds-nesting with Tommy Eastwood, as had been at one time proposed and settled between them.
"She loves me—she loves me!" And Wilford passed his hand across his damp forehead.
Another moment and with a radiant face he had passed into the house—into the drawing-room, where Violet, with partially-recovered placidity was sitting trying to work.
DINNERS.
Some little time ago there appeared in the "Times" some leaders, pointing out the lamentable want of ingenuity and invention in our native cookery, and suggesting the advisability of people's attention being turned to the due consideration of these by no means unimportant matters. Whereupon some letters were written in the columns of that journal, in which the writer appeared (at least to me) to wholly misunderstand the drift of the above articles, inasmuch as his culinary suggestions were only applicable to the tables of the wealthy, whereas (if I mistake not) the aforesaid leaders pointed only to the tables of those of moderate but comfortable means, in the hope that some benevolent individuals of this calibre, who had made this noble art their study, would kindly enlighten their fellow "incomists" how to avoid the monotony of that eternal saddle of mutton and those couple of chickens, separated Creswellianly by (that root of all separation) a tongue, by pointing out to them the numbers of snug little dishes, most excellent and piquante of their kind, and within the capability of the most moderate incomes—(some of them even made from the remnants of the British joint)—which they might with certain success place one at a time, "hot and hot," before even a fastidious conclave, not exceeding in number eight.
What is wanted, in the first instance, is a little boldness, and recreant must be he or she who would not show a bold front in bringing about so great and so desirable a reform. Oh, mature matrons! oh, young and aspiring housewives! fear not. Let not the "malignant and turban'd" spinster turn you from your purpose, nor heed the comments of the narrow-minded; but, like reforming Russell, stick to your bill of fare!
The skill requisite to produce this effect must be twofold—suggestive and executive;—the former supplied by yourself, the latter by a middle-aged female at 25 to 30 guineas per annum. (An extra 5l. or 10l., believe me, gentle consumer, in the matter of wages, will, in this instance, be economically expended.) Choose either a kitchen-maid from under a good cook, or a clever plain cook, for whom you must be always on the look-out for useful hints; but by all means, previous to testing your cook's capabilities before your friends, I would strongly recommend your having private rehearsals in a variety of culinary arts, and amongst those I consider of the most importance, I would mention the roasting of game, the making of bread sauce, melted butter, pastry, jellies, omelettes aux fines herbes, the cooking of maccaroni, the art of flavouring sauces (avoiding in this almost entirely the use of spices), the cooking of vegetables, especially that much-neglected one, the potato; and last, not least, always attending to the vis vasis, or strength of the stock-pot. One very important item in a dinner I have not named—a salad (when lettuce is in season), as this should be the work of your own hands—but of this anon.
If the size and shape of your room admits it, I prefer a round table. Yet this I do not insist on, but I do insist that your number at dinner should never (including selves) exceed eight. I do not think even Belgravian or Grosvenorian banquets should exceed twelve, as, without considering the sociable, but merely the sensual part of the question, I hold it to be a rule, that the merits of a dinner retrograde in proportion as you increase the number of your guests, and for the most obvious of reasons, every dish (excepting, of course, cold ones) being in a state of declension from the time it leaves the cook's hands. The very rich, with their retinue of servants, may obviate this by duplicate dishes, which I think even a dinner for a dozen demands at their hands. But my remarks do not point in that direction, but to humbler, though not less satisfactory gatherings.
And now, having thrown out the foregoing suggestions, above all, in giving your dinner, do not lose sight of the following maxim—The Eye requires to be fed as well as the Palate. This is full half the battle. Many a time have I left the table of my host, and said to myself, "What a capital dinner he gave us," and on thinking over (as one often does) what were its component parts, have been astonished to find that they were few in number, and simple (though of course excellent) in quality. Then how is it that I have been impressed with the notion that I had dined as well, if not better, than the daintiest Roman Emperor, and have gone on my way rejoicing? Simply because two senses have been called into play—my eye has been pleased and my palate gratified.
So on this head let me say a few words. Your room must be well lighted, but not with gas; there must not be a crease in your table-cloths,—I speak in the plural, for there must be two, or what some people use instead, "slips," which cover that portion of the table-cloth immediately in front of the people, which (whether it be the "slips," or the upper table-cloth), on being removed when dinner is over, and dessert put on the table, leaves a pure and unstained cloth underneath—a monstrous march this, as well in civilisation as in economy; for not only may your table-top (as it generally is now) be made of deal,