“Will you let me?”
“Certainly, I give you carte blanche. Do anything you like, dear, and begin on the coffee. Did any one ever taste such stuff as these boys make?”
So I went out into the kitchen, which was really a back verandah closed in with native matting, and was full of smoke and jabbering boys. The utensils were all very inferior. The spout of the kettle was off, and the water had to be boiled in a large iron pot, while the boys crowded round me, staring solemnly and falling over each other and getting in the way. But the quality of the coffee was good, and when at last the water boiled I achieved. It took a long time, though, and while I was busy I could hear the knocks at the front door and the laughter of new arrivals. When I took in my coffee-pot the room was full of the smoke of cigarettes, and everybody wanted to taste my brew. Afterwards they raved about it, and complained bitterly that there was not enough to go round. So I went back to make more, but this time I brewed it in a big enamel jug. Just as I was dropping in a tiny pinch of salt to flavour it and make all the grounds settle at the bottom, a shadow fell across my hands, and looking up I found Anthony Kinsella leaning in the doorway and observing me with the deepest interest.
“I think that is what you have done to me,” he observed solemnly.
“What?” said I in astonishment.
“Put a pinch of salt on me.”
Our eyes met, and we both burst into laughter.
“I don’t think you are very tame,” I said.
“Tame! This is the first soirée I’ve been to in this country. They’re quite out of my line.”
“I know what brought you to-night,” I said.