“Oh dank U wel,” I said, endeavouring to be quicker. That time I nearly had a slice. But the agile youth, Jaap, who was in charge of the plate, whipped it away too.
No broodjes met vleesch for me! It was very queer.
“Soms een ei?” said the dignified grandmother, in a white cap with gold ornaments. She presided, and did a great deal of the talking; and I could make out that she was the widow of a fisherman or shipowner in a small way, and had once visited Hull. In virtue of having spent a week there, some forty years before, she was regarded evidently by all the rest as an authority on English manners and customs and language and literature.
“Soms een ei?” she pleaded. “Engelshman like egg.”
Very much, indeed, I thought, if I could only get one—call me English or Irish or whatever you like. Fain would I have had an egg off that plate, where she had just put down six or eight, freshly boiled.
Determined to get one, if politeness would assist me, I smiled and bowed and smiled again. “Oh, ik dank U duizendmaal. Ik bewijs volkomen dankbaarheid.”
ANOTHER CUP.
Stunned apparently by my reply, she hesitated. To encourage her to extend these edibles a trifle nearer, I said, “Alstublieft. Dank U.” But she only sighed, and laid the plate out of reach, reproachfully.
No eggs!
“Truitje,” she whispered to her granddaughter; “presenteer de schuimpjes.”