TRANTO. Yes, she always looks particularly well just before she's going to be ill. She's very brave, very brave. MRS. CULVER. D'you mean in having twins? It was more than brave of her; it was beautiful--both boys, too. HILDEGARDE (_innocently_). Budgeting for a long war. MRS. CULVER (_affectionately_). My dear girl! Come here, darling, you haven't changed. Excuse me, Mr. Tranto. HILDEGARDE (_approaching_). I've been so busy. And I thought nobody was coming. MRS. CULVER. Is your father nobody? (_stroking and patting_ Hildegarde's _dress into order_). What have you been so busy on? HILDEGARDE. Article for _The Echo_. (Tranto, _who has been holding the MS., indicates it_.) MRS. CULVER. I do wish you would let me see those cookery articles of yours before they're printed. TRANTO (_putting MS. in his pocket_). I'm afraid that's quite against the rules. You see, in Fleet Street-- MRS. CULVER (_very pleasantly_). As you please. I don't pretend to be intellectual. But I confess I'm just a wee bit disappointed in Hildegarde's cookery articles. I'm a great believer in good cookery. I put it next to the Christian religion--and far in front of mere cleanliness. I've just been trying to read Professor Metchnikoff's wonderful book on 'The Nature of Man.' It only confirms me in my lifelong belief that until the nature of man is completely altered good cooking is the chief thing that women ought to understand. Now I taught Hildegarde some cookery myself. She was not what I should call a brilliant pupil, but she did grasp the great eternal principles. And yet I find her writing (_with charm and benevolence_) stuff like her last article--'The Everlasting Boiled Potato,' I think she called it. Hildegarde, it was really very naughty of you to say what you said in that article. (_Drawing down_ Hildegarde's _head and kissing her_.) TRANTO. Now why, Mrs. Culver? I thought it was so clever. MRS. CULVER. It may be clever to advocate fried potatoes and chip potatoes and sauté potatoes as a change from the everlasting boiled. I daresay it's what you call journalism. But how can you fry potatoes without fat? TRANTO. Ah! How? MRS. CULVER. And where are you to obtain fat? _I_ can't obtain fat. I stand in queues for hours because my servants won't--it's the latest form of democracy--but _I_ can't obtain fat. I think the nearest fat is at Stratford-on-Avon. TRANTO. Stand in queues! Mrs. Culver, you make me feel very guilty, plunging in at a moment's notice and demanding a whole dinner in a fatless world. I shall eat nothing but dry bread. MRS. CULVER. We never serve bread at lunch or dinner unless it's specially asked for. But if soup, macaroni, eggs, and jelly will keep you alive till breakfast-- HILDEGARDE. But there's beefsteak, mamma--I've told Mr. Tranto. MRS. CULVER. Only a little, and that's for your father. Beefsteak's the one thing that keeps off his neuralgia, Mr. Tranto. (_With apologetic persuasiveness_.) I'm sure you'll understand.