“Good morning, Miss Rosa—Miss Caffyn,” said the woman, nearly dropping the tray in her attempt to drop a curtsey—the curtsey of the charity school girl to a member of the Rector’s family.
“Good morning,” said Priscilla.
“Good morning, Miss Wadhurst.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pearce,” said the man, as she laid down her tray on the table. “Do you think you could add to your favours by hunting out a couple more plates and knives and forks, and, above all, glasses? I quite forgot to tell you that I had sent out invitations to lunch. My first guests have arrived.”
“Please do not trouble; bread and cheese for us,” cried Priscilla.
“What about that plover’s egg that you were trifling with—oh, I see you have laid it quietly back on the dish,” he remarked, with an ingratiating smile in the direction of Rosa.
“I’m afraid,” murmured Mrs. Pearce—“I’m afraid that—that——”
She was looking in the direction of the covered dish on the tray.
“I’m not,” cried he. He lifted off the cover and displayed the twin halves of a chicken beautifully grilled. “She’s afraid that there isn’t enough to go round!” He pointed to the dish. “Gloriana! as if I could eat all that off my own bat! Do hurry about those plates—and, above all, don’t forget the glasses. Can you guess what the name of this hock is?” he added, turning to Rosa.
“It’s Liebfraumilch, and you were not asleep after all,” cried the girl, rosy and smiling.