"Something has happened," she thought. "Can Reggie have said anything
already?"
She walked into the breakfast-room, where she found Lord Reggie alone.
He was holding up a table-spoon filled with marmalade to catch the light
from a stray sunbeam that filtered in through the drawn blinds, and wore
a rapt look, a "caught up" look, as Mrs. Windsor would have expressed
it.
"Good morning," he said softly. "Is not this marmalade Godlike? This
marvellous, clear, amber glow, amber with a touch of red in it, almost
makes me believe in an after life. Surely, surely marmalade can never
die!"
"I must have been mistaken," Mrs. Windsor thought, as she expressed her
sense of the eternity of jams in general in suitable language.
Robert Hichens
The Green Carnation (1894)
I wrote about this satire on Oscar Wilde here.
