"Why, it looks--as if--as if you had been in a hurry, Uncle John," she said at last. "It looks as if _some one_ had been in a hurry," said Mr. Montfort, significantly. "I have not been in this room before, to-day; I found it in this condition. Never mind, my dear! I am going to write a letter now. Don't let me keep you any longer." Margaret went away, wondering much; her uncle joined her soon, and they looked at the roses together, and chatted as usual, and were happy, till Cousin Sophronia rapped on the window with her thimble, and asked whether they were coming in, or whether she should come out and join them. She was trying that evening, Cousin Sophronia. Nothing on the tea-table suited her, to begin with. She declared the beef tea unfit to touch, and desired Mr. Montfort to taste it, which he politely but firmly refused to do. "But it is not fit to eat!" cried the lady. "I insist on your tasting it, my dear John." "My dear Sophronia, I am extremely sorry it is not to your taste. If it is not good, I certainly do not want to taste it. Send it away and ask me to taste something that is good." The chicken was tough. "You should change your butcher, John. Or are these your own fowls? Chickens I will not call them; they must be two years old at least. Nothing disagrees with me like tough poultry. Nobody to look after the fowls properly, I suppose. I must take them in hand; not that I have had any experience myself of fowls, but an educated person, you understand. So important, I always say, to bring educated intelligence to bear on these matters. And then, these knives are so dull! Even if the fowls were tender, impossible to make an impression with such a knife as this. Elizabeth, what do you use for your knives?" Elizabeth used Bristol brick, as she always had done. "Ah, entirely out of date, Bristol brick. You must send for some of the preparation that William uses, John. Nothing like it. Something or other, it's called; somebody's--I can't remember now, but we will have it, never fear, dearest John. Shameful, for you to be subjected to dull knives _and_ tough poultry. What are these? Strawberries? Dear me! I did hope we could have raspberries this evening. One is so tired of strawberries by this time, don't you think so?" "I am sorry," said Mr. Montfort. "The raspberries will be ripe in a day or two, Sophronia; Willis thought they would hardly do to pick to-day."