“Tea is ready,” said the old lady; and she smiled more graciously still when Dick stepped forward and offered his arm to walk the four steps across to the second best room, where meals were always spread.
Everything was very homely and simple, but to the boy fresh from London the table was a delight. Right in the centre there was a blue jug full of the old purser’s choicest flowers scenting the room. The best tea-tray covered one end, with its paraphernalia of best china, the battered old silver pot and very much worn silver tea-spoons; while at the other end was a ham in cut, a piece of ornamental preservation, all pinky fat and crimson lean, marbled throughout. A noble-looking home-baked loaf, a pat of yellow butter—real cow’s butter—ornamented with a bas-relief of the swing-tailed horned lady who presumably was its author, and on either side a dish of raspberry jam, and another containing a piece of virgin honey-comb, from which trickled forth the pale golden sweetness.
“Allus make it a rule here, sir,” said the old purser, “o’ having a good bit o’ salt provision in cut. Let me give you a bit o’ ’am.”
Dick raised no objection, and then, as soon as he was helped, and saw the cup of tea with a veined pattern of rich lumpy cream running over it, he sighed involuntarily.
“There, I am sorry,” cried Aunt Ruth, “it isn’t to your liking. I knew that ham would be too salt.”
Dick Temple flushed like a girl.
“Oh no!” he cried; “it wasn’t that.”
“Then it’s the butter!” cried the old lady, in mortified tones.
“Butter!” cried Dick, who had already eaten two semicircles out of a slice; “why, it’s glorious! We never get such butter in London.”
“But you sighed,” said the old lady, bridling, while Uncle Abram wrinkled his forehead and shook his head at Will.