“Three ladlesful, Dame Catherina; three full ladles! Indeed, in your place, I should put in four.”
“We’ll put in four,” said the good woman. “It’ll make sure.”
At that moment she perceived Mathéus, an unmoved spectator of the gastronomic council.
“Ah! good heavens! I did not see this gentleman! Is this gentleman with you, Coucou Peter?”
“It’s a friend of mine,” said the fiddler; “the learned Doctor Mathéus, of Graufthal—an intimate friend of mine! We are travelling for our own pleasure and to spread the lights of civilisation.”
“Ah, Doctor, pray forgive me!” said Mother Windling; “we are up to the eyes in puddings! Come in, and pray excuse us.”
The illustrious philosopher made several low bows, as if to say, “Don’t think of apologising;” but he was thinking all the time, “This woman belongs to the order Gallinæ,[1] a prolific race, naturally voluptuous and fond of good living;” as her lively eyes, fat and rosy cheeks, and her slightly upturned though large nose, sufficiently proved.
[1] This order includes domestic poultry.
This was what the Doctor thought, and certainly he was not wrong; for Mother Windling had led a free-and-easy life in her day; stories were told of her—stories—in fact, extraordinary things; and, in spite of her forty years, she had still very pleasant eyes.