I was lunching at my aunt Dahlia's, and despite the fact that Anatole,
her outstanding cook, had rather excelled himself in the matter of
the bill of fare or menu, I'm bound to say the food was more or less
turning to ashes in my mouth. You see, I had some bad news to break to
her--always a prospect that takes the edge off the appetite.
She wouldn't be pleased, I knew, and when not pleased, Aunt Dahlia,
having spent most of her youth in the hunting field, has a crispish way
of expressing herself.
However, I supposed I had better have a dash at it and get it over.
"Aunt Dahlia," I said.
"Hullo?"
"You know that cruise of yours?"
"Yes."
"That yachting cruise you are planning?"
"Yes."
"That jolly cruise in your yacht in the Mediterranean to which you so
kindly invited me and to which I have been looking forward with such
keen anticipation?"
"What about it?"
I swallowed a chunk of _côtelette suprême aux chouxfleurs_ and slipped
her the distressing info.
"I'm frightfully sorry, Aunt Dahlia," I said, "but I shan't be able to
come."