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The housemaid is banging her utensils on piazza and in hallway: the cook is flirting with the milk-and butter-man at the back gate, and exclaiming "Oh Laws!" to some news or pleasantry of his. The licensed venders are abroad. There are all sorts of cries. It is less than an hour to breakfast. The night is lost: one foolish, intolerable noise has spoiled all.
When Swadeshi had not yet become a boast, we had despised it with all our hearts. My husband still sharpens his Indian-made pencils with his Indian-made knife, does his writing with reed pens, drinks his water out of a bell-metal vessel, and works at night in the light of an old-fashioned castor-oil lamp. But this dull, milk-and- water Swadeshi of his never appealed to us.
No wonder, then, that the aged man, who firmly believes that Japan is going to the dogs, the devil or the foreigners he does not know which shakes his head as he now passes by the milk-and butcher-shops, around which the lazy dogs sleep or wait for bones, and sighs as he remembers the grand old mansion.
Take the liquor of three pints of oysters. Strain it, and set it on the fire. Put into it, pepper to your taste, two table-spoonfuls of butter rolled in flour, and a bunch of sweet marjoram and other pot-herbs, with a saucer full of chopped celery. When it boils, add a quart of rich milk-and as soon as it boils again, take out the herbs, and put in the oysters just before you send it to table.
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