“Here, Sam,” said Andy, holding it out; and turning to the teapot, he poured himself out a cup of tea without looking at his visitor.
“Bit of cake?” he said, holding the plate. Then he glanced at Sam. “Why, you’re not drinking the beer?”
“Do you mean it, sir?” asked Sam.
“Of course I do. Here’s another bottle when you’ve finished that. I was glad of somebody to talk to.”
“My respects,” Sam said, gulping down the ale.
Then Andy poured out another bottle and brought forth tobacco, and as they smoked they talked together about everything on earth. Certain it is, that Andy had never been so amusing or so brilliant in his life, and sounds of laughter could be heard long after eleven in the apartment where Mrs. Jebb enjoyed her chaste repose, while the study was misty with tobacco-smoke.
Next morning, however, the little maid came out of the room aghast, with the two empty beer-bottles on her tray.
“Smoking and drinking till nearly twelve o’clock with Sam Petch! Why, even the public-house closes at eleven!” she exclaimed.
“Mr. Deane has a perfect right to do as he likes in his own house without giving rise to foolish remarks,” said Mrs. Jebb with her lips—but her heart was so little in it that Sophy felt emboldened to reply—
“It does seem queer, ’m.”