The last to enter the room was the governess, Miss Emily Hood.
Mr.Athel, having pronounced a grace, mentioned that he thought of running up to town; did anybody wish to give him a commission?
Mrs.
Rossall looked thoughtful, and said she would make a note of two or three things.
'I haven't much faith in that porridge regimen, Wilf,' remarked the master of the house, as he helped himself to chicken and tongue.

'We are not Highlanders.

It's dangerous to make diet too much a matter of theory.

Your example is infectious; first the twins; now Miss Hood.
Edith, do you propose to become a pervert to porridge ?' 'I have no taste for it,' replied his sister, who had become absent-minded.
'There's a certain dishonesty about it, moreover,' Mr.Athel pursued.
'Porridge should be eaten with salt.

Milk _and_ sugar--didn't I hear a suggestion of golden syrup, more honestly called treacle, yesterday?
These things constitute evasion, self-deception at the least.