Take it
away."

"It will do nicely for to-morrow night," said Mary.

At that Aubrey dropped his entire cigarette into his and I put a spoonful
of salt into mine.

"Isn't it good, Missis?" asked Mary of me.

"I don't know," I said, wearily. "I'm too tired to eat."

"Take it away," said Aubrey again.

"My poor dear child!" cried Mary. "Too tired to eat! But eating will do
you good. Taste a bit! Try it, Missis dear!"

"No, I don't seem to care for it, and I was very hungry at seven o'clock.
Don't you remember, Aubrey, I said coming up in the elevator how hungry I
was?"

"I remember," said my husband. "But you are just like me. If you don't
have your meals at a certain time your appetite goes."

At that Mary lifted her head and looked at us through her spectacles.
Never were four more innocent eyes to be met with than ours. We looked
at her calmly until she lowered her gaze. It was not an impudent nor a
defiant look she gave us. It was a trial of wills. Our two against her
one.

She removed the soup without more ado, and brought in a broiled chicken.
Oh, oh! Shall I ever forget it! I was so hungry by that time that I
could have bitten a piece out of my plate.

Mary stood by with a face as anxious as if she were standing by the
death-bed of her child.

Aubrey lifted it with the carving-fork, looked at me, and said:

"Do you feel as if you could eat a little bit of this?"

A little bit! I felt as if I could have snatched it in my paws and run
growling to a corner to devour the whole of it and to bury the bones for
the next day.

"No," I said, wearily, leaning my head on my hand to hide my countenance.
"But you eat some, dear."

Aubrey laid down the carving-fork.

"No, I don't care for any."

"What time did you have your luncheon, dear?" I asked, anxiously.

"At half-past twelve. I had an appointment with Squires at one."

"And what did you have?" I continued, for Mary's face was expressive of
the liveliest horror.

"A club sandwich and a glass of beer."

Mary looked at the clock. It was half-past eight.

"Oh, my dear!" I said, mournfully. "It is no wonder you can't eat. Your
stomach is too exhausted to feel hunger."

Mary ran around the table for no reason at all. She took the cover off
the best silver dish. It was a dish of fresh peas cooked with onions and
lettuce. Petits pois a la paysanne! I had taught her myself! I simply
glared at it. To this day I can smell those