heart.

"You did it beautifully, dear," said my wife as I came out. She also had
been listening behind the other door.


CHAPTER II.

Weeks passed. My only desire was to dismiss the whole question from my
mind. Like LLOYD GEORGE in the House of Commons I had appeared and made
my statement, and I was content to leave the whole matter to my wife. I
do not mean to say that I did not observe sundry innovations in the food
supply. Funny-looking scones came up that tasted rather of pea-soup;
some of the meat dishes had a sort of padded-out aspect, and it was
difficult to get quite away from oat-meal. But I had no cause to
complain. It is only in the last ten days that the situation has become
grave. Barer and barer is the board. I have even had to make
suggestions. I proposed that bacon, for instance, might be allowed to
reappear on Sundays. Very well, said my wife patiently, she would see
what she could do. I wondered if buttered toast had been finally
banished for the Duration. She hoped not. But I gave up that policy, for
I found that whenever I recovered some such fugitive from our table
something else was certain to disappear.

My eyes were opened to it at last. I saw that the establishment was
going rapidly downhill. And I could get no real satisfaction from my
wife. She would make vague promises of reform; she would undertake to do
her best; and she would begin to talk brightly about something else.

And then I wanted to ask the Harrisons to lunch. That brought on the