“Beans make bones,” asserted Rose fatuously. “Why, of course not,” she said hastily. “I was afraid that cocoanut cake would take away your appetite.” No, that was the wrong thing to say: she saw George’s face sharpen at the mention of the cake: he was getting ready to blurt out something and she felt sure it would be awkward. With the speed of a hunted animal her mind dodged in search of some remark that would give her time to think. “I like the English way of serving beans, slicing them lengthwise, you know; it makes them so tender, without any strings.” There; surely that would dispose of the absurd topic. “George, what are you going to do this afternoon? Go for a swim?” “But these _are_ string beans,” said George. “They’re supposed to have strings. Perhaps Mr. Martin misses them.” “If he doesn’t finish his beans, Virginia can have them,” Sylvia suggested. “She eats vegetables sometimes.” Virginia was the cat, just now obviously misnamed. Phyllis knew very well what was coming next, but she could not speak fast enough to avert it. “Beans will be good for her,” said Janet with enthusiasm. “She’s going to have a family very soon, she needs nourishing food.” “Mother says she mustn’t have a shock, it might be bad for the kittens.” “That’ll do, never mind about Virginia.” Lizzie was making grimaces from the kitchen door, holding up a cup custard and contorting a red face of inquiry. Phyllis nodded. But perhaps Lizzie means there aren’t enough custards to go round? “Oh, Lizzie, put on the fruit too.” George, with his damnable persistence, had not forgotten. “How about the cake?” he asked. “George, you know we’ve got to save the cake for the Picnic. I can’t ask Lizzie to make another one.” “It’s been cut already,” he said. I’m _not_ going to be humiliated like this in front of a stranger. George is just doing it because he sees Mr. Martin admires me. Will this meal never end? I’m past battling over trifles. Have the cake if you want it. I don’t care. If Lizzie puts it on, all right. Leave it to her. I’m not going to order it on. Cooks always take the man’s side anyhow. I’m afraid Mr. Martin will think we’re lunatics. “What do you think of a husband that always knows exactly what’s in the pantry?” she asked him. A moment later she couldn’t remember what he had said to this. Perhaps it’s because I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts. The only thing I really remember his saying was his comical question whether he need finish his beans. It’s odd, how much he conveys without saying anything, just by a look.