‘I want some flour, please,’ he said to the man behind the counter.
‘How much, sir?’
‘Well, I don’t know quite. About enough to make a toad-in-the-hole for two.’
The man stared at his customer for a minute, and then suggested perhaps half a quartern would do.
‘Certainly,’ said George. If the man had said a hundredweight or an ounce he would have said the same.
When all his commissions were executed—though not without considerable puzzling over quantities—George marched home in triumph.
He had only broken one egg and let the flour all over the reticle by poking the chops in so that the sharp point of the bone made a hole in the bag. Bess lifted the lid, looked into the reticule, and gave a little scream.
It was annoying to have the chops and a broken egg and the flour all mixed up together; but still, as it was George’s first journey to market, he was forgiven.
He had a hug, and was ordered to sit still and not get into mischief while his wife went downstairs into the kitchen and prepared the delicate dish.
It was a happy dinner, I can tell you; better than all your Richmond follies and your London restaurant nonsenses. The toad-in-the-hole was delicious, and George insisted upon Miss Duck tasting it, and he informed Miss Duck that he’d been to market, and did Miss Duck ever taste anything so delicious in her life?