Father came home while I was describing our day to Topaz. (Not one word did he say about what he had been doing in London.) He had travelled on the same train as Mrs. Cotton and asked her to dinner on the next Saturday — with Simon and Neil, of course. For once, Topaz really got angry. “Mortmain, how could you?” she simply shouted at him. “What are we to give them — and what on? You know we haven’t a stick of dining-room furniture.” “Oh, give them ham and eggs in the kitchen,” said father, “they won’t mind. And they’ve certainly provided enough ham.” We stared at him in utter despair. It was a
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