"There!" she exclaimed; "I've doubted the miller's eye."
O'Gree laughed when he saw Waymark looking for an explanation.
"That's a piece of Weymouth," he remarked. "Mrs. O'Gree comes from the south-west of England," he added, leaning towards Casti. "She's constantly teaching me new and interesting things. Now, if I was to spill the salt here—"
He put his hand on the salt-cellar, as if to do so, but Sally rapped his knuckles with a fork.
"None of your nonsense, sir! Give Mr. Casti some more meat, instead."
It was a merry party. The noise of talk grew so loud that it was only the keenness of habitual attention on Sally's part which enabled her to observe that a customer was knocking on the counter. She darted out, but returned with a disappointed look on her face.
"Pickles?" asked her husband, frowning.
Sally nodded.
"Now, look here, Waymark," cried O'Gree, rising in indignation from his seat. "Look here, Mr. Casti. The one drop of bitterness in our cup is—pickles; the one thing that threatens to poison our happiness is—pickles. We're always being asked for pickles; just as if the people knew about it, and came on purpose!"
"Knew about what?" asked Waymark, in astonishment.