‘It do smell nice, don’t it,’ remarked Sally as she sat down, unable to refrain from sniffing.
‘What do, Miss?’ asked Mr. Soper, recognising with almost incredulous pleasure a manner of speech with which he was at his ease.
‘Wot you got in that there basin,’ said Sally, also recognising, and also with pleasure, accents since her marriage become very dear to her because reminiscent of home.
She smiled with the utmost friendliness at him. Mr. Soper found it difficult to believe his eyes.
‘It’s my dinner,’ said Mr. Soper, gazing at the vision.
‘Well, I didn’t suppose it was your Sunday ’at,’ said Sally, pleased to find that she too, given a chance, could say clever things. ‘Tell by the smell it ain’t a nat.’
Mr. Soper also seemed to think this clever, for he laughed, as Sally put it to herself, like anything.
‘Stew?’ she asked, her delicate nose describing little half circles of appreciative inquiry.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Soper. ‘Irish.’
‘Thought so,’ said Sally; and added with a sigh, ‘the best of the lot.’