“There’s half a crown broke,” said the landlord, as the man in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. “You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, and I hate breakages: because why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.”
CHAPTER VIII.—FIRST LESSONS IN ARMENIAN.
The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to rain, however violent. “I am glad you are returned,” said she, as soon as she perceived me; “I began to be anxious about you. Did you take my advice?”
“Yes,” said I; “I went to the public-house and drank ale as you advised me; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away the horror from my mind—I am much beholden to you.”
“I knew it would do you good,” said Belle; “I remembered that when the poor women in the great house were afflicted with hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, kind man, used to say, ‘Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong.’”
“He was no advocate for tea, then?” [{118}] said I.
“He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, ‘Everything in its season.’ Shall we take ours now?—I have waited for you.”
“I have no objection,” said I; “I feel rather heated, and at present should prefer tea to ale—‘Everything in its season,’ as the surgeon said.”
Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she said, “What did you see and hear at the public-house?”
“Really,” said I, “you appear to have your full portion of curiosity: what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the public-house?”