The man bowed as if aware that an honor had been done him. “Is there any particular dish, sir, you crave for your breakfast?”
Instead of replying to the question Gervase looked at Anne, as if he desired that in a matter of such importance hers should be the responsibility of choosing.
Quick to follow the glance, as he was quick to follow all things, the man was fain to take it for his guide. “What do you desire for your breakfast, young sir?” he said to Anne.
“A dish of sweetbreads, if it please you,” said Anne, without an instant’s hesitation.
“The devil you do!” The man broke into a cry of laughter. “You eat delicate, young sir. Is a dish of sweetbreads your usual fare of a morning?”
“No,” said Anne. “But you asked me what I would like for my breakfast.”
“Well, young gypsy, you shall have ’em, confound me if you shall not, if good Mistress Davenant can rise to such fare. I will go and inquire.”
The man gathered his papers, rose from the bench and entered the tavern.
Anne and Gervase were left on the threshold to speculate, perhaps a little dubiously, upon this new turn in their fortunes. Gervase was already spurring his memory to recall who this man might be. He had the clearest recollection of having seen him before. But where he had seen him and in what circumstances he could not remember just then. Still, he felt not the least distrust of him. The countenance was subtle enough, and wholly unlike that of any other man, but it had also a frankness, a candor, a large geniality which wholly forbade the idea of treachery.
Soon the man returned with a roguish light in his eye and the assurance that Mistress Davenant would furnish a dish of sweetbreads in twenty minutes.