“Yes, Sir; a quarter-past five. It’s the strangest thing I ever knew,” said he, going to the window, which commanded a view of the road at several of its windings through the valley. “We have an excellent lake trout for dinner; but by good luck it’s to be grilled, not boiled, or it would be ruined utterly.”
“Capital things, those red trout,” said M’Kinlay, to whom, like most of his craft and way of life, the pleasures of the table offered great temptations. “Is your cook a good one, Rickards?”
“Only a woman, Sir; but by no means bad. Sir Gervais always takes M. Honoré with him on board the yacht; but you’ll see, Sir, that she knows how to roast, and we have a sweet saddle of Welsh mutton to-day, if it’s not over-done.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Rickards,” said the lawyer; and if a sigh ever denoted sorrow, his did as he spoke. “Is the mutton small?”
“Very small, Sir. Mountain mutton.”
“And of course it will be done to rags! She serves it with currant-jelly, I snppose?”
“No, Sir, with guava. Sir Gervais prefers it.”
“And what else was there on your bill of fare for to-day?”
“A very simple dinner, Sir. Partridges on toast, a salad of white truffles, and a roast hare.”
“Quite enough, quite enough. Do you bring your wine down with you!”