Paws for Alarm Read Online Free PDF Page B

already decided that Lania was not going to prove exactly a soulmate. It was comforting to know that a native of the country felt the same way about her. I was afraid it might just be me and my silly ingrained American prejudices. ‘We’ll get together just as soon as my jet-lag has worn off.’
    We were in the dining-room now and Lania was making traffic-directing signals which somehow relegated each of us to the seat she had intended.
    I found myself between Richard and Piers. Arnold was between Lania and Hazel. We smiled at each other falsely as we settled into our chairs and Richard poured the wine while Mrs Thing brought in the gazpacho.
    I was already beginning to suspect that the English went by the calendar rather than the thermometer and this was another bit of confirmation. Although it was late June, the weather was damp and chill and I personally would have served a hot soup, if not devilled chicken drumsticks, or something – anything – to try to bring the body temperature up to blood heat.
    I exchanged a martyred glance with Arnold as we reached for our soup spoons – and stopped dead.
    Okay, I know America is unique in that we usually lay out just one knife, one fork, one spoon – and that’s it. I’ve read the etiquette books clueing you in as to how to conduct yourself at the fancy formal occasions. But, Dear Abbey, Amy Vanderbilt and Emily Post – you’ve let me down. I’ve grasped the feet that you should start at the outside and work your way towards your plate when you’re confronted by an unfamiliar array of cutlery. Only – there was another set of cutlery at the top of my plate. How about that? Where did those implements sort themselves into the routine?
    I glanced across at Arnold and found no help there. No doubt about it, we were just a couple of hicks from the sticks. The only thing to do was to fall back on that other dubious instruction – and follow the hostess’s lead. But Lania was deep in muted conversation with Piers and giving every indication that she might skip the first course entirely. Perhaps she was dieting and didn’t care.
    I slid a sideways glance at my host, but he was no help, either. He was glaring at his wife and tearing a roll to pieces.
    In despair, I turned to see what Hazel was doing. Thank heavens, she was actually paying attention to the food that had been set in front of her. She was attacking the gazpacho with a giant-sized circular implement, sipping delicately from it as it reached her lips. As on a peak in Darien, I realized why all English-based etiquette books exhorted you never to put the soup spoon in your mouth: if you did, odds were that you’d never be able to get it out again.
    Frowning towards Arnold, I picked up the same implement – I could not think of it as a spoon – and began wielding it. With an incredulous expression, he followed my example and we struggled through the soup course.
    Like a fool, I relaxed when Mrs Thing carried in a large casserole and set it before Lania. It was hot and still bubbling from the oven. A cloud of fragrant steam wafted upwards as Lania lifted the lid. Mrs Thing had already set bowls of vegetables on the table and now she carefully carried in a stack of plates, using oven mitts, so they were evidently hot.
    Lania dished out and passed round the plates, handling them very cautiously. I took mine gingerly, all I needed was to drop it because it burned my fingers and splash that rich brown gravy all over the white lace tablecloth.
    I exchanged glances with Arnold, knowing he feared the same, but we managed successfully. It wasn’t until we started eating that we realized that the trap was not in the plate but on it.
    My first mouthful told me that this was something new in my experience. I wasn’t sure I liked it. I chewed thoughtfully and allowed my gaze to wander to Arnold. He was sawing away at a piece of meat, hampered by a bone in an