“Like this?”
“Better”
“Just lay hold of this handle—for it’s scorching the skin off my face I am.” She seemed to think for a moment and added, “entirely.”
In silence Bealby grasped that exquisite smell by the handle, he took the fork from her hand and put his hungry eager nose over the seething mess. It wasn’t only bacon; there were onions, onions giving it—an edge! It cut to the quick of appetite. He could have wept with the intensity of his sensations.
A voice almost as delicious as the smell came out of the caravan window behind Bealby’s head.
“Ju-dy!” cried the voice.
“Here!—I mean,—it’s here I am,” said the lady in the deerstalker.
“Judy—you didn’t take my stockings for your own by any chance?”
The lady in the deerstalker gave way to delighted horror. “Sssh, Mavourneen!” she cried—she was one of that large class of amiable women who are more Irish than they need be—“there’s a Boy here!”