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
crisis, for I formulated a minimum demand of a leg of mutton or a pair
of fowls.
"I don't see how it's possible, dear," said my wife. "I _am_ so sorry."
"You are keeping something back from me," said I. "Tell me, whose is the
'Hidden Hand' that is running this blockade?"
"It's Cook."
"Oh, Cook."
"Yes, ever since you gave her that awful slanging about patriotism she
has been grinding me down more and more. She's always plotting and
scheming and telling me that she must keep the book down for the good of
the country. I can see that Jane isn't getting sufficient nourishment.
If I were to propose a pair of fowls for lunch I know that she would say
it was her duty to remind me that we were a beleaguered city. And yet I
don't want to discourage her...."
"That's very awkward," said I. "What in the world are we to do about the
Harrisons?"
"I know," said my wife suddenly. "Ask them on Saturday. Cook's going to
Plymouth for the week-end to see her son."
"Oh, good," said I. "And we _will_ have a blow-out."
"And we won't put it down in the book."
"No, not a hounce of it."
So that is what we are going to do about the Harrisons. But it doesn't
touch the larger question. Our problem, you will see, is very different
from that of other people, and my wife smiles a pale wan smile when she
hears her friends endlessly discussing ways and means of keeping within
Lord DEVONPORT'S rations. What we want is to discover a means of getting
back to that lavish and generous standard of living.