"There you are," I said. "You don't like marmalade--few women do--and so
you're going to make a virtue for yourself by forcing _me_ to give it
up. My dear, you've given the whole show away."

"Don't juggle with words," she said, speaking with a dreadful calm. "I
may be able to get a pot or two--say at the outside a dozen pots. Well,
if I manage it I will inform you--"

"Yes," I said eagerly.

"If I manage it," she repeated, "you shall know of it, and you shall
make your self-denial complete and efficacious."

"I don't like the way in which this sentence is turning out."

"You shall have a pot in front of you at breakfast, and you shan't touch
a shred of it."

"Francesca," I said, "you're a tyrant. But no, you wouldn't be mean
enough to do it--before the children too."

"Perhaps, as a concession, I would allow you a little marmalade in a
pudding at luncheon."

"But I don't like marmalade in a pudding at luncheon. I like it on toast
at breakfast."

"But you're not going to have it on toast at breakfast."

"Well," I said, "I shall conduct reprisals. For every time you don't