“A credit, like I am to mine, or used to be before I got thin through semi-starvation. Here’s to your very good health; may your beauty never grow less.” Benjamin raised his glass to his lips.
“More flattery.” Gentle Annie’s comfortable laugh shook her whole body. “I’m sorry I can’t return the compliment.”
“You do better: you supply the inner man—steak, done to a turn; stout; sweet stuffs. You couldn’t have treated me better, if I’d been a bishop.”
“Why a bishop?”
“I’ve looked round, and taken stock of my fellows; and I think a bishop has a rousing good time, don’t you?”
“I can’t say; I don’t often entertain bishops.”
“Bishops and licensed victuallers; I think they get the cream of life.”
“But what about lords and dukes?”
“They have to pay through the nose for all they get, but bishops and landlords get all their good things chucked in gratuitous. Of course a bishop’s more toney, but a publican sees more of life—honours, meaning good tucker and liquor, divided.”
Tresco attacked the juicy steak: his satisfaction finding expression in murmurs of approval. He finished the stout with as much relish as if it had been the richest wine; and then Gentle Annie took from the cupboard two glass dishes, the one half-filled with luscious red plums swimming in their own juice, the other containing junket.