m to wash her hands and smoothe her
hair. She did not wish to be late and set a bad example, and perhaps
find her seat at the head of the table taken. One could put no trust
in the manners of the younger generation; especially not in those of
that Mrs. Wilkins.

She was, however, the first to arrive in the dining-room.
Francesca in a white apron stood ready with an enormous dish of smoking
hot, glistening macaroni, but nobody was there to eat it.

Mrs. Fisher sat down, looking stern. Lax, lax.

"Serve me," she said to Francesca, who showed a disposition to
wait for the others.

Francesca served her. Of the party she liked Mrs. Fisher least,
in fact she did not like her at all. She was the only one of the four
ladies who had not yet smiled. True she was old, true she was
unbeautiful, true she therefore had no reason to smile, but kind ladies
smiled, reason or no. They smiled, not because they were happy but
because they wished to make happy. This one of the four ladies could
not then, Francesca decided, be kind; so she handed her the macaroni,
being unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely.

It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared for
maccaroni, especially not this long, worm-shaped variety. She found it
difficult to eat--slippery, wriggling off her fork, making her look,
she felt, undignified when, having got it as she supposed into her
mouth, ends of it yet hung out. Always, too, when she ate it she was
reminded of Mr. Fisher. He had during their married life behaved very
much like maccaroni. He had slipped, he had wriggled, he had made her
feel undignified, and when at last she had got him safe, as she
thought, there had invariably been little bits of him that still, as it
were, hung out.

Francesca from the sideboard watched Mrs. Fisher's way with
macaroni gloomily, and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take
her knife to it and chop it small.

Mrs. Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of the
stuff. She was aware that knives in this connection were improper, but
one did finally lose patience. Maccaroni was never allowed to appear
on her table in London. Apart from its tiresomeness she did not even
like it, and she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again. Years
of practice, reflected Mrs. Fisher, chopping it up, years of actual
living in Italy, would be necessary to learn the exact trick. Browning
managed maccaroni wonderfully. She remembered w