Anne Bronte, in Agnes Grey, lifted the following, unfortunately, from her own personal experiences:
There was a roast leg of mutton before him: he helped Mrs Bloomfield, the children, and me, desiring me to cut up the children's meat; then, after twisting about the mutton in various directions, and eyeing it from different viewpoints, he pronounced it not fit to be eaten, and called for the cold beef.
'What is the matter with the mutton, my dear?' asked his mate.
'It is quite overdone. Don't you taste Mrs Bloomfield, that all the goodness is roasted out of it? And can't you see that all that nice, red gravy is completely dried away?'
Well I think the beef will suit you.'
The beef was set before him, and he began to carve, but with the most rueful expressions of discontent.
'What is the matter with the beef, Mr Bloomfield? I'm sure I thought it was very nice.'
'And so it was, very nice. A nicer joint could not be; but it is quite spoiled,' he replied dolefully...
Notwithstanding the ruinous state of the beef, the gentleman managed to cut himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. When he next spoke, it was, in a less querulous tone, to ask what there was for dinner.
'Turkey and grouse,' was the concise reply.
'And what besides?'
'Fish.'
'What kind of fish?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know?' cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.
'No. I told the cook to get some fish--I did not particularise what.'
'Well that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and doesn't even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and doesn't specify what!'
'Perhaps, Mr Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future'
