"And yet what?" demanded his wife.
"I think I had the pleasure of helping you three times, my love," added Sir Christopher, astonished at his own boldness in uttering the words, the moment they had escaped his lips.
"Three times!" ejaculated the lady, turning as red as her ribands or as her husband's trowsers. "And if I like to be helped six times—or nine times, Sir Christopher—what should you say then?"
"Well, my love—I should say——"
"What should you say?" again asked the lady, assuming a menacing attitude.
"Why, my love—that you had a very good appetite," responded the knight, looking as miserable as if he expected eight finger nails to fasten on his cheeks the very next moment.
"I have no appetite, Sir Christopher!" cried the lady in a petulant tone, as she sank back again into her lounging attitude: "three miserable bits of ham, and a trifle of cold pie, with may be a taste of the chicken, and just one cut out of the tongue——"
"And two eggs, my love," suggested Sir Christopher meekly.
"Well—and two tiny eggs," continued the lady;—"I am sure all that doesn't say much for one's appetite. Why, when I was at Lady Hatfield's, I used to eat three great rounds of bread-and-butter, crustinesses and all."
"But you are no longer at Lady Hatfield's, my angel," said Sir Christopher, simpering; "you are with one who adores you—who has given you his name—a name, I flatter myself, that carries weight with it, in certain quarters; although, when I did so far forget myself as to put up for Portsoken——"