And that evening, which is meatless and is given up largely to asparagus (just beginning, thank God!), you certainly see no toast in the rack, but find that the tender green faggot reposes on a slab of it large enough to feed several children. Mrs. Legion may go to church, but her real religion is concerned far more with her employers' bodies than with her own soul; and among the cardinal tenets of her faith is the necessity for dinner to be hot. You may have a cold lunch, but everything at dinner must have been cooked especially for that meal, all circling about the joint, or a bird, like satellite suns. How to cleave such a rock of tradition? How to bring the old Tory into line with the new rules and yet not break her heart? "And, Mrs. Legion," you say, not too boldly, and at the end of some other remark, "we'll have yesterday's leg of mutton for dinner to-night, with a salad." "Cold mutton for dinner?" she replies dully. "Yes--now the weather's getting warmer it's much nicer. It will save coal too. Just the mutton and a salad. No potatoes." "No potatoes!" Surely the skies are falling, says her accent. You have been eating mashed potatoes, done with cream and a dash of beetroot in it, with cold meat, at lunch, for years. "No, no--we mustn't eat potatoes any more. Haven't you heard?" "I heard something about it, yes. But aren't we to eat those we've got?" "No, we must give them away. Remember, just cold mutton and salad. And no toast." You are getting more confidence. "Never toast any more"--another light laugh--"never any more!" And at dinner there are the cold mutton and salad all right; but to your horror you are asked first to eat a slice of salmon with two boiled potatoes. "Good heavens!" you say, "what's this?" "Well, Sir [or 'M], the fishmonger called, and as I felt sure the cold meat couldn't be enough for you...." Summoning all your courage you protest again, adding, "And another thing, Mrs. Legion; you mustn't make any more pastry. The flour can't be spared. It's not only bread we've got to be careful about, but everything made with flour." "Then what's the flour for?" "That's all right. But it's got to be saved." "I don't understand, Sir [or 'M]. I can't see why it shouldn't be used if we have it." "No. The idea is that every one should go without flour as much as possible, and then there will be more and it will last longer. More for other people." "My duty is to this house, Sir [or 'M]. But the flour's so coarse and brown it's hardly worth using, anyhow. I never saw such stuff. It's a scandal. But I'm truly sorry if I've disappointed you. All I want to do is my duty." "You have, Mrs. Legion, you have. You've been splendid; but the time has come now to eat less and to eat more simply. Is that clear?" "Well, I hear you right enough, Sir [or 'M], but I can't say I understand it. War or no war, I don't hold with folks being starved." And there it breaks off, only, of course, to begin again.