"
"Darling!" said Mrs Quantock, sending out more love. But she had a
quick temper, and indeed the two were outpoured together, like hot and
cold taps turned on in a bath. The pellucid stream of love served to
keep her temper moderately cool.
"Well, ask him," suggested Mr Quantock, "as you say, you never can tell
where a Guru may be called. Give him forty pounds a year and beer
money."
"Beer!" began Mrs Quantock, when she suddenly remembered Georgie's
story about Rush and the Guru and the brandy-bottle, and stopped.
"Yes, dear, I said 'beer,'" remarked Robert a little irritably, "and in
any case I insist that you dismiss your present cook. You only took her
because she was a Christian Scientist, and you've left that little
sheep-fold now. You used to talk about false claims I remember. Well
her claim to be a cook is the falsest I ever heard of. I'd sooner take
my chance with an itinerant organ grinder. But that fish-curry tonight
and that other thing last night, that's what I mean by good eating."
The thought even of good food always calmed Robert's savage breast; it
blew upon him as the wind on an AEolian harp hung in the trees, evoking
faint sweet sounds.
"I'm sure, my dear," he said, "that I shall be willing to fall in with
any pleasant arrangement about your Guru, but it really isn't
unreasonable in me to ask what sort of arrangement you propose.
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