"So silky, Peregrine, and—ripply."
"Ah!" said I, glancing from the beef to his ecstatic face. "You mean—"
"To be sure I do!" said he, and shook my hand again.
"And her eyes—you must have observed her eyes?"
"Somewhat red and swollen—"
"Tush!" said he, and catching my hand again, led me to a small and dingy mirror against the wall.
"An ill-looking scoundrel!" he exclaimed, pointing to his reflection. "A miserable wretch, a friendless dog, and Peregrine, I tell you she stooped to trust this scoundrel, to touch this wretch's hand, to speak gentle words to this homeless dog. She's a saint, begad—a positive angel and—oh, stab my vitals—she's hungry and I forgot it—"
"So am I, Anthony—so are you—and here's supper—"
"Where?" he enquired, still lost in contemplation of his villainous reflection.
"On the table, of course."