“Then I'll go—like a lady,” said she, with sudden humility.
He offered her his arm. She passed hers within; but leaned as lightly as possible on it, and her poor pale face was a little pink as they went.
He entered the eating-house, and asked for two portions of cold roast beef, not to keep her waiting. They were brought.
“Sir,” said she, with a subjugated air, “will you be so good as cut up the meat small, and pass it to me a bit or two at a time.”
He was surprised, but obeyed her orders.
“And if you could make me talk a little? Because, at sight of the meat so near me, I feel like a tigress—poor human nature! Sir, I have not eaten meat for a week, nor food of any kind this two days.”
“Good God!”
“So I must be prudent. People have gorged themselves with furious eating under those circumstances; that is why I asked you to supply me slowly. Thank you. You need not look at me like that. Better folk than I have died of hunger. Something tells me I have reached the lowest spoke, when I have been indebted to a stranger for a meal.”
Vizard felt the water come into his eyes; but he resisted that pitiable weakness. “Bother that nonsense!” said he. “I'll introduce myself, and then you can't throw stranger in my teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a Barfordshire squire.”
“I thought you were not a Cockney.”