The Nun deliberately disposed of a piece of plum cake and a sip of tea—the latter to wash the former down.
"I don't fall in love myself," she observed, in a tone decided yet tolerant—as though she had said, "I don't take liqueurs myself—but if you like to risk it!"
"You miss the best thing in life, miss," Jack cried.
"And most of the worst too," added the Nun serenely.
"Don't say it, miss. It don't come well from your pretty lips."
"Have I put you on your mettle? I meant to, of course, Mr. Rock."
Old Jack slapped his thigh, laughing immensely. Now wasn't this good—that she should be here, having tea, getting at him like that?
It was a happy conjuncture, for the Nun was hardly less well pleased. She divided her life into two categories; one was "the mill," the other was "fun." The mill included making a hundred and eighty pounds by singing two silly songs eight times each every week, being much adored, and eating meals at that restaurant; "fun" meant anything rather different. Having tea with Jack Rock, the Meriton butcher, was rather different, and Miss Flower (as Seymour called her—almost the only person who did) was enjoying herself.
"I should like to take a walk along the street before we go to the meeting, Jack."
"Jack," casually dropped, with no more than a distant twinkle, finished Mr. Rock.