“Is it not rather a question of payment, madame?”
“No, it is not,” she snapped out viciously. “Moogsieur imposes his custom on me. He may take or refuse; what do I care, then! We have nowadays other things to think of than to pamper the gross appetites of worldlings.”
“A thousand pardons! Is not that a strange confession from an inn-keeper?”
“You may think so if you like. It makes no difference. To charge an egg with the price of a full meal—where one is willing to pay it—it simplifies matters, does it not? Anyhow, to be served by one of the elect (it is I that speak to you)—that is a privilege your betters appreciate at its value.”
“Well,” said Ned, “I am at sea, and I have a mariner’s appetite. Give me what you will, madame.”
She accepted him, as once before, with a sort of surly mistrust. A former unregenerate friend of his, she said, was seated in the common kitchen. He had best join this person while his meal was preparing.
Thither, much marvelling over all he had heard and been witness of, Ned consequently bent his steps. He had not expected much of the “Landlust,” but this exceeded his devoutest hopes. It had the effect also of arousing in him something of a wicked mood of indocility.
Entering the long room, the first object to meet his eyes was the sizar of Liége University. The little round man sat at the table, a glass of eau sucrée by his elbow, a pipe held languidly between his teeth. An expression of profound melancholy was settled on his features. He looked as forlorn as a tropic monkey cuddling itself in an east wind. At the sight of Mr Murk he started, and half rose to his feet.
“The devil!” he muttered; and added—not so inconsequently as it appeared—“You are welcome to Méricourt, monsieur.”
Ned laughed.