Oh, indeed, she did not wish to speak with him, but he was so old and poor and ugly she could not but feel sorrow for him; and he said last night that he had come such a long way off, and must soon return.
M’Gourley shuddered.
“Ay,” said he to himself, “a dom long way off;” then to Campanula: “Said he anything else?”
“No,” replied Campanula, “for I told him to go to the back entrance, and he went.”
At this moment the soup was brought in by three somewhat faded-looking Mousmés, each armed with a plate, a real English soup plate.
The soup was thin and not exuberantly hot, but it seemed vastly to amuse Campanula when it was put before her. “A,” said she, pointing with her spoon-tip to something at the bottom of the plate, “B—C”—she was pointing to the little Italian paste letters floating, or rather sunk, in the mixture. “D—and look—a cow!”
Mac looked over to admire.
“Ay, ay, it’s a coo, right enough, an’ there’s a cock and hen; but eat it up before it gets cold.”
Campanula ate her alphabet, and the next course appeared. A boot sole labeled a beef-steak, which vanished, uneaten, and was replaced by what seemed to be an old stone cannon-ball, such as they used to fire out of Mons Meg. The O.S.C.B. was labeled a pudding.
It was the caricature of an ordinary English middle-class country luncheon.