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At one or at two My dinner'll be due. At three, say, or four, I'll eat a bit more. When the clock's striking five Some mild exercise, Very brief, would be wise, Lest I lack appetite For my supper at night. Don't go to bed late, Eat a light lunch at eight, Nor forget to say prayers For my cousins downstairs. Then with conscience like mine I'll be sleeping at nine. Mrs.
Then Benson says: 'Dinner'll be ready in five minutes; how tired I do feel! Then he takes the libbuty of sitting hisself down on his royaliness's rug, and he says, asking your pardon, 'I've had about enough of service here. I'm about tired, and I thinks of bettering myself.
'It's not a bad idea, said the Psammead sleepily, putting its head out of its bag and taking it in again suddenly, 'being left in the Past. Everyone remembered this afterwards, when 'Hullo! he said, with brotherly concern, 'what's up now? Dinner'll be cold before you've got enough salt-water for a bath. 'Go away, said Anthea fiercely. 'I hate you! I hate everybody!
"Why, that puts me in mind of the story But never mind! I'm always thinking about old times." Mr. Rabbit sighed as he said this. "Oh, please tell us the story," pleaded Sweetest Susan, anxious to make friends with Mr. Rabbit. He shook his head. "Mrs. Meadows can tell it better than I can." "Dinner!" cried Mr. Thimblefinger. "What about dinner?" "Dinner'll be ready directly," replied Mrs. Meadows.
Kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his servant. Landlord Johnson hurried out to greet him. "We've been expecting you, Mr. Gwynne," he said in his most genial manner. "Step right in. Dinner'll soon be ready, and I reckon you must be hungry. Take the hosses around to the stable, nigger, and put 'em up.
"My, my; that was some party!" the Negro chuckled, gathering up three empty pasteboard cartons and telescoping them together. "Dinner'll be ready in about half an hour, Mrs. Fleming. Shall I go mix the cocktails now?" "Yes; do that, Reuben. In the drawing-room." She watched the servant carry the discarded containers around the house, then turned to Rand.
Mother Marshall reached her short little arms up around his neck and laid her gray head for just a minute on the tall shoulder, while a tear hurried down and fitted itself invisibly into her dimple; then she ran her fingers through his thick brown hair and patted his cheek. "Dear boy!" she breathed, contentedly, but suddenly roused herself. "Here I'm keeping you, and that dinner'll spoil!
For Jim went on talking and smiling and covering the writer all over with gratitude and affection, until he was interrupted by the stopping of a carriage, the ringing of a door bell, and the sound of a sudden arrival. "There's Master Walter Middleton now, as sure as the world! I must run! Dinner'll be put on the table soon's ever he's changed his dress. I'm a thousand times obleeged to you, sir.
But he scrupulously passed the door of the upstairs sitting-room, not even looking within it, and contrived to get himself into his own chamber without having encountered anybody. "Here's yer 'ot water, Mr Eames," said the girl, coming up to him after an interval of half-an-hour, "and dinner'll be on the table in ten minutes. Mr Cradell is come in, and so is missus's son."
'You don't like it, forgive me, I won't do it, don't be angry! Polozov came in from the next room with a newspaper in his hand. 'What do you want? Or is dinner ready? 'Dinner'll be ready directly, but just see what I've read in the Northern Bee ... Prince Gromoboy is dead. Maria Nikolaevna raised her head. 'Ah! I wish him the joys of Paradise!
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