I'm getting worn to a shadow by the
grind of that awful voice."
"I thought your clothes were getting a bit loose," said the
Colonel, "but I put that phenomenon down to another reason. In
spite of Mrs. Wilding's praise of our present style of cooking, I
don't believe our friend Vander finds it substantial enough to
sustain his manly bulk, and I'll tell you the grounds of my belief.
A few mornings ago, when I was shaving, I saw the butcher bring
into the house a splendid sirloin, and as no sirloin has appeared
at table, I venture to infer that this joint was a private affair
of Vander's, and that he, as well as Mrs. Gradinger, has been going
in for bedroom cookery. Here comes the Marchesa; we'll ask her to
solve the mystery."
"I can account for the missing sirloin," said the Marchesa. "The
Colonel is wrong for once. It went duly into the kitchen, and not
to Mr. Van der Roet's bedroom; but I must begin with a slight
explanation, or rather apology. Next to trial by jury, and the
reverence paid to rank, and the horror of all things which, as poor
Corney Grain used to say, 'are not nice,' I reckon the Sunday
sirloin, cooked and served, one and indivisible as the typical
fetish of the great English middle class.
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