“Not the ladies?” whispered Rolph.
“Yes; they’re revelling.”
“Good heavens!” muttered Rolph; and he turned cold and damp, the perspiration standing upon his brow.
“Nothing worse in this world than prejudice,” said the major, taking a mouthful of the delicate dish.
“Ah, yes: superb. Jack, old fellow, try some of these fungi.”
“Get out!” said Sir John, sipping his wine.
“But, my dear boy, they are simply magnificent,” cried the major. “Here, take the dish to your master.”
The mushrooms were handed, and Sir John tried a little, recalled the dish, and had some more, while Rolph sat perfectly still, not daring to speak, though he saw everyone at the table partaking of the stew.
“What are these?” said Sir John. “They’re very good.”
“Agaricus Rubescens, my boy. Tons of them rot every year, because there is no one to pick them but Miss Lucy Alleyne and your humble servant here.”