The dinner so tragically manque had been arranged to
assemble a number of Anglo-Italian friends; and, as Sir John was as
perfect as a host as Narcisse was as a cook, the disappointment was
a heavy one. She threw aside the letter with a gesture of
vexation, and opened the next.
"Sweetest Marchesa," it began, "how can I tell you my grief at
having to postpone our dinner for Friday. My wretched cook (I gave
her seventy-five pounds a year), whom I have long suspected of
intemperate habits, was hopelessly inebriated last night, and had
to be conveyed out of the house by my husband and a dear, devoted
friend who happened to be dining with us, and deposited in a four-
wheeler. May I look in tomorrow afternoon and pour out my grief to
you? Yours cordially,
"Pamela St. Aubyn Fothergill."
When the Marchesa had opened four more letters, one from Lady
Considine, one from Mrs. Sinclair, one from Miss Macdonnell, and
one from Mrs. Wilding, and found that all these ladies were obliged
to postpone their dinners on account of the misdeeds of their
cooks, she felt that the laws of average were all adrift.
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