My great-grandfather made delicious salads.

I have heard him say that he preferred our English habit of mixing ingredients to the French one of dressing one vegetable by itself; but he said we did not carry it far enough, we neglected so many useful herbs.

And so his salads were compounded not only of lettuce and cress, and so forth, but of dandelion, sorrel, and half-a-dozen other field or garden plants.
Sometimes one flavour preponderated, sometimes another, and the sauce was always good.
Now it is all over it seems to me that I must have been very stupid not to have paid more attention to the strange flavour in the salad that day.

But I was thinking chiefly of the old lady, who was not very well (Elspeth had an idea that she had had a very slight "stroke," but how this was we cannot know now), whilst my grandfather was almost flightily cheerful.

I tasted the salad, and did not eat it, but I was the less inclined to complain of it as they seemed perfectly satisfied.
Then my grandmother was taken ill.