But are you sure that he IS a pig? If
by any chance he be not?--then, Madam, you are making a grievous
mistake. My dear Lady, you are too modest. If I may say so without
making you unduly conceited, even at the dinner-table itself, you
are of much more importance than the mutton. Courage, Madam, be not
afraid to tilt a lance even with your own cook. You can be more
piquant than the sauce a la Tartare, more soothing surely than the
melted butter. There was a time when he would not have known
whether he was eating beef or pork with you the other side of the
table. Whose fault is it? Don't think so poorly of us. We are not
ascetics, neither are we all gourmets: most of us plain men, fond
of our dinner, as a healthy man should be, but fonder still of our
sweethearts and wives, let us hope. Try us. A moderately-cooked
dinner--let us even say a not-too-well-cooked dinner, with you
looking your best, laughing and talking gaily and cleverly--as you
can, you know--makes a pleasanter meal for us, after the day's work
is done, than that same dinner, cooked to perfection, with you
silent, jaded, and anxious, your pretty hair untidy, your pretty
face wrinkled with care concerning the sole, with anxiety regarding
the omelette.
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