“Well, I’m sure I should ha’ been glad on a few not long back, and it was quite good enew to gie away to people.”
“And I’m sure it was not, Mrs Slee: the poor people are hungry, and want food. This strike’s a terrible thing.”
“Then they shouldn’t strike,” growled Mrs Slee.
“I quite agree with you, Mrs Slee, so I don’t give soup to the men who did strike; but the women and children did not strike, and if you knew what it was to be hungry—I beg your pardon, Mrs Slee,” he added hastily, as he saw his housekeeper flush up. “There, I did not think. But this soup. We had a capital French cook at my college, and he gave me lessons. I’m a capital judge of soup, and I’ll taste the fresh. Bring me in a basin, and send these people away.”
Mrs Slee muttered and went out, looking rather ungracious, and the vicar turned to his guest, who was fidgetting about and seemed rather uneasy.
“I’m rather proud of our soup here at the vicarage—broth, the people call it,” said the vicar.
“I’ve heerd tell of it, sir,” said John Maine, who wanted to go.
“But I have hard work to keep the water out. I always tell Mrs Slee that the people can add as much of that as they like. But, I say, Maine, there’s something wrong with you!”
“Oh, no, sir; nothing at all, sir; but it’s time I was going, sir, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Well, well, good-bye, Maine. I hope,” he added significantly, “your head will be better. Mind this, though, I’m not one of the confessional parsons, and insist upon no man’s confidence; but bear this in mind, I look upon myself as the trusted, confidential friend of every man in the parish. I shall be over your way soon.”