“Who cares?” said Bush.
He shaved, restropped his razor with care, and put it back into his roll of toilet articles. The scars that seamed his ribs gleamed pale as he moved. When he had finished dressing he glanced at Hornblower.
“Chops,” said Hornblower. “Thick chops. Come on.”
There were several places laid at the table in the diningroom opening out of the hall, but nobody else was present; apparently it was not the breakfast hour of Mrs Mason’s other gentlemen.
“Only a minute, sir,” said Susie, showing up in the doorway for a moment before hurrying down into the kitchen.
She came staggering back laden with a tray; Hornblower pushed back his chair and was about to help her, but she checked him with a scandalised squeak and managed to put the tray safely on the side table without accident.
“I can serve you, sir,” she said.
She scuttled back and forward between the two tables like the boys running with the nippers when the cab was being hove in. Coffeepot and toast, butter and jam, sugar and milk, cruet and hot plates and finally a wide dish which she laid before Hornblower; she took off the cover and there was a noble dish of chops whose delightful scent, hitherto pent up, filled the room.
“Ah!” said Hornblower, taking up a spoon and fork to serve. “Have you had your breakfast, Susie?”
“Me, sir? No, sir. Not yet, sir.”