“In about half an hour.”
“Good,” said the man; “but I wish it was ready now. And now, sir, if you would just glance over this book, while we are waiting for supper—”
I cut him very short and went out into the road. I walked up and down in front of the house, in a bad humor. I could not bear to think of my wife getting supper for this fellow, who was striding about on the piazza, as if he was very hungry and very impatient. Just as I returned to the house, the bell rang from within.
“Joyful sound!” said the man, and in he marched. I followed close behind him. On one end of the table, in the kitchen, supper was set for one person, and, as the man entered, Euphemia motioned him to the table. The supper looked like a remarkably good one. A cup of coffee smoked by the side of the plate; there was ham and eggs and a small omelette; there were fried potatoes, some fresh radishes, a plate of hot biscuit, and some preserves. The man's eyes sparkled.
“I am sorry,” said he, “that I am to eat alone, for I hoped to have your good company; but, if this plan suits you, it suits me,” and he drew up a chair.
“Stop!” said Euphemia, advancing between him and the table. “You are not to eat that. This is a sample supper. If you order a supper like it, one will be served to you in two weeks.”
At this I burst into a roar of laughter; my wife stood pale and determined, and the man drew back, looking first at one of us, and then at the other.
“Am I to understand—?” he said.
“Yes,” I interrupted, “you are. There is nothing more to be said on this subject. You may go now. You came here to annoy us, knowing that we did not entertain travelers, and now you see what you have made by it,” and I opened the door.
The man evidently thought that a reply was not necessary, and he walked out without a word. Taking up his valise, which he had put in the hall, he asked if there was any public-house near by.