“It’s all right,” I said. “Have no misgivings. This is the real
Tabasco. When I said ‘Eat less meat’, what I meant was that you
must refuse your oats at dinner tonight. Just sit there, looking
blistered, and wave away each course as it comes with a weary gesture
of resignation. You see what will happen. Uncle Tom will notice your
loss of appetite, and I am prepared to bet that at the conclusion of
the meal he will come to you and say ‘Dahlia, darling’--I take it he
calls you ‘Dahlia’--‘Dahlia darling,’ he will say, ‘I noticed at dinner
tonight that you were a bit off your feed. Is anything the matter,
Dahlia, darling?’ ‘Why, yes, Tom, darling,’ you will reply. ‘It is kind
of you to ask, darling. The fact is, darling, I am terribly worried.’
‘My darling,’ he will say----”
Aunt Dahlia interrupted at this point to observe that these Traverses
seemed to be a pretty soppy couple of blighters, to judge by their
dialogue. She also wished to know when I was going to get to the point.