“Why, no. They are all delicious—perfectly delicious.”
“Moughty p’oud ter year yo’ say so, sah, moughty p’oud.”
“But, Martha, I have been longing to ask you how is your mistress? Well, this morning, I hope, by your manner?”
“P’opper well, sah. Peert as pussy, de ole madam is.”
“You did not tell her that I had come?”
“Hi! young marse, who yo’ fink is a fool? Not me! No, sah, I didn’t tell de ole madam, who was as’eep up yere in de log house. If I had, dere wouldn’ been no holdin’ her back, no, sah. She’d ’a’ t’ied to walk down herse’f.”
“My poor, dear mother! How soon now can I see her, I wonder?”
“Soon’s ebber yo’ like, sah. De ole madam hab finis’ her breakfas’—an’ doane she yeat hearty? Umph! umph! It would do yo’ good ter see her,” said Martha, smacking her own lips in gastronomic sympathy.
Harcourt was not pleased to be told this. He had heard that abnormal appetite often attended cases of softening of the brain.
“An’ now,” continued Martha, “she is sot down to her stockin’ an’ ball o’ yarn, an’ she knittin’ away like a cherrybim. Yo’ can go see her soon’s ebber yo’s done yo’ breakfas’.”