“I hope not, Edward,” broke in the girl, who was now, with the assistance of a servant-woman, preparing the table for supper; “I hope you 'll stay till we see the autumn tints on those trees.”
“My sister is just as great an enthusiast about sketching as I am for salmon-fishing,” said he, laughingly; “and for my own part, I like scenery and landscape very well, but think them marvellously heightened by something like sport. Are you an angler?”
“No,” said I; “I know nothing of the gentle craft”
“Fond of shooting, perhaps? Some men think the two sports incompatible.”
“I am as inexpert with the gun as the rod,” said I, diffidently.
I perceived that the sister gave a sly look under her long eyelashes towards me; but what its meaning, I could not well discover. Was it depreciation of a man who avowed himself unacquainted with the sports of the field, or was it a quiet recognition of claims more worthy of regard? At all events, I perceived that she had very soft, gentle-looking gray eyes, a very fair skin, and a profusion of beautiful brown hair. I had not thought her pretty at first I now saw that she was extremely pretty, and her figure, though slightly given to fulness, the perfection of grace.
Hungry, almost famished as I was, with a fast of twelve hours, I felt no impatience so long as she moved about in preparation for the meal. How she disposed the little table equipage, the careful solicitude with which she arranged the fruit and the flowers,—not always satisfied with her first dispositions, but changing them for something different,—all interested me vastly, and when at last we were summoned to table, I actually felt sorry and disappointed.
Was it really so delicious, was the cookery so exquisite? I own frankly that I am not a trustworthy witness; but if my oath could be taken, I am willing to swear that I believe there never were such salmon-steaks, such a pigeon-pie, and such a damson-tart served to mortals as these. My enthusiasm, I suspect, must have betrayed itself in some outward manifestation, for I remember Crofton laughingly having remarked,—
“You will turn my sister's head, Mr. Potts, by such flatteries; all the more, since her cookery is self-taught.”
“Don't believe him, Mr. Potts; I have studied all the great masters of the art, and you shall have an omelette to-morrow for breakfast, Brillat Savarin himself would not despise.”