“Can she brew ale?”
“Aye, and cider too and also perry.”
“Well, she’s a paragon, I’m bound to admit.”
“Aye, she’s a nonesuch, there’s not the least doubt about that,” said the innkeeper. “Her bread and her cider are things to remember.”
“Things to dream upon, in fact?”
“Yes, young man; and if you doubt me you had better try them for yourself.”
Now it was here that Gervase affected a lordly indifference, a lofty disdain. “Well, Master Innkeeper, I don’t mind very much if I do,” he said, and his air was almost one of condescension.
“You shall do so young man,” said the innkeeper proudly.
And in an exceedingly loud voice he addressed some unseen presence within the precincts of the inn kitchen. “Marian, bring out at once one of your newest and largest loaves for a young gentleman in a tarnished doublet of black velvet.”
“You have forgotten the cider,” said Gervase, with an air of profound indifference. “A large pot would be the best, I think.”