What I did complain of was the “slipping-on.” She glided into the kitchen when I was wrestling with the beef, and asked me to slip on an evening bodice. There are, undoubtedly, people who can give their minds to an evening bodice on the top of a large breakfast and attend to the beef at the same time. Mrs. Simpson[A] could, I am sure, for one sees the effect of the beef on her bodices, which sometimes have such a sensible, dead look about them. The bodices do not affect the beef in any way or lighten its weight, because nothing makes any difference to beef. It knows just what and where it intends to be, and no one can divert it from its purpose. During my early married life I foolishly attempted to keep the beef out of the house on Sunday, because I detest habit, and that any food or person should acquire the habit of coming at one particular time makes its company less of a pleasure than if it took its chance and dropped in. I gave the order that no beef “in any shape or form” was to come into my house on Sunday. The butcher repeated my order in the shop, whereupon the beef turned purple and indignant. “What!” it said, puffing and blowing, “I am not to come? There must be some mistake. They cannot have Sunday without me; I am part of the day itself. If I am not present at the table there will be no Sabbath, and then where shall we all be? Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! I insist on going--stop that mutton--it must not leave the shop.” The butcher wrung his hands in protest, and said he knew he should get into trouble, but the beef replied: “Not a word, Sir, not a word.” It bustled out of the shop into the basket and arrived at my door, where it insisted on being delivered by the boy. But Ruth had her orders and was firm. “Just you go back,” she insisted. “But what about my wife,” blustered the beef, “my wife the rhubarb tart? If I am not to take my place upon the board neither shall my wife attend; she shall not be served without me.” “Just keep quiet, please,” said Ruth. “We’re not having tart; we’re having soufflé and mutton cutlets, so now be off with you.” There was a frightful scene, but I persevered for three weeks. Then I went away for a fortnight, and, while I was gone, the beef came back and curried favour with Ruth. He poisoned her mind about the busy day Monday was, with the washerwoman and all, and how convenient he was to eat cold; no mess, no second vegetable, just salad out of the garden, and so on. I was powerless against the pair of them; but now I always cut him with a blunt knife. Sometimes I cook him on Saturday night, and he has to appear cold in the middle of the day on Sunday, which he dislikes as much as being tarred and feathered with strange sauces and trimmings. But to return to Miss McGregor. “No,” I said, “I won’t. You can slip it on the beef if you like, he hates being garnished, and perhaps it will keep him in his place. Put a whole mouthful of pins in him if you like, and then snip him into shreds.”