I imagine that the milkman, from whom she heard of the War and whom she thinks (for his class) a sagacious fellow, has warned her against the Press.  Anyway she has refused—­and will, I fancy, never relent—­to allow any extreme idea of food shortage to disturb her routine.

“Look here, Mrs. Legion,” you say, “really, you know”—­you don’t like, or you have lost the power, to be too firm with her after all these years of friendliness—­“really we mustn’t have toast any more.”

“Not toast!”

“No, not any more.  In fact”—­a light laugh here—­“I’m going to do without bread altogether directly.”

“Do without bread!” This with much more alarmed surprise than if you had declared your intention of forswearing clothes.

“Yes; the Government want us to eat less bread.  In fact we must, you know; and toast is particularly wasteful, they say.”

“There’s no waste in this house, Sir [or ’M].”  This with a touch of acerbity, for Mrs. Legion is not without pride.  “No one can ever accuse me of waste.  I’m not vain, but that I will say.”

“No, no,” you hasten to reply, “of course not; but things have reached such a point, you know, that even the strictest economy and care have got to be made more strict.  That’s all.  And toast has to be stopped, I’m afraid.”

“Very well, Sir [or ’M], if you wish it.  But I can’t say that I understand what it all means.”

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!”