When Martin entered with his laden basket, the foreigner, Mr. Pasqua himself, came up to him, and speaking in very good English, said:
“You are from Faryner’s, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are in very good time. It is not yet one o’clock, and I am pleased. Grimes’s boy was late, over and over again, and I was in danger of losing my customers, the gentlemen who honour me. Tell Mr. Faryner that he has begun well. And now let me see what you have brought.”
He took a cake and a roll from the basket, and bit each of them in turn.
“Very good,” he said, as he munched, smacking his lips and blinking his eyelids. Martin was amused at the little man’s serious air.
Calling one of his boys, he bade him take the basket to the signorina. This was evidently the young woman behind the counter, but as she spoke in a very decided London accent Martin felt sure she was not a foreigner and wondered why she was so called. It was a harmless affectation of Mr. Pasqua’s, like that which, in those days of Charles II, gave Italian names to English musicians and mountebanks.
While the basket was being emptied, Mr. Pasqua said to Martin:
“You look tired, boy. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I have never tasted it, sir,” Martin answered.