“What ails the old faggot?” he said.
“He be stone deaf, master.”
Then the fellow bawled: “Jarge! Jar-rge! the gen’leman warnts ’s oss tended.”
The old man put a wrinkled claw to his ear, and shook his head.
“Eh!” said Mr. Tuke. “You refuse?”
He flushed in surprised anger, when at the moment a girl came into the bar, and addressed him in a bright civil voice.
“Grandfather’s deaf, sir,” she said; “and I was out of the way. I’ll send your horse to the stable. And what shall I draw for your honour?”
She was fresh and desirable as a spring of sweet water to a thirsty traveller. An old yellow handkerchief, of cherished silk, was knotted about her head, yet none so jealously but that a curl or two might escape—like tendrils of Tantalus his vine—for the teasing of fervid souls; and her gown, girdled under her bosom and fastened there with a favour of Michaelmas daisy, smelt of lavender and was the colour of it. She was tall, too, for a Hebe of the downs, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were tanned of a soft ivory—as were her hands, that were fine and capable-looking.
She gazed honestly at our gentleman from eyes as full of brown harmonies as a starling’s back; and he had no thought but to return her gaze with complete admiration.
“Can you give me to eat?” he said. “Anything will do.” And “Surely, sir,” she answered, “if simple fare will serve your honour.”