“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Maine. “I know you do,” and, backing out, the next moment he was gone.
“Strange young man that—strange people altogether,” said the vicar. “Oh, here’s the soup.”
For just then Mrs Slee bustled in with a napkin-covered tray, bearing a basin and spoon, the former emitting clouds of steam.
The vicar took the basin, sat down, stirred it, smelt it, tasted it, and replaced the spoon, while Mrs Slee watched his face eagerly.
“Wants another pinch of salt, and another dash of pepper. Fetch them, Mrs Slee, and some bread.”
Mrs Slee, looking as ungracious as ever, but with an eagerness which she could not conceal, hurried out to return with the required articles, when more salt was added and a dash of pepper. Then a slice of bread was cut from the home-made loaf, and the vicar tasted—tasted again, and then, in the calmest and most unperturbed manner possible, went on partaking of the soup, every mouthful being watched with intense eagerness by the woman waiting for his judgment.
“Capital soup this, Mrs Slee; capital brew!”
Mrs Slee did not smile, as the vicar diligently hunted the last grains of rice in the bottom of the basin with his spoon, but she gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“This will go off like a shot. How much have you got of it? Almost equal to our soup at Boanerges.”
“There’s about sixty quarts of it, sir.”