Mr. Barrie was from home, and the family dinner was, in Bell’s phrase, an “offpit;” and Mrs. Barrie, knowing this, expressed her regret that she could hardly ask Mr. Kirkwood to join them at their homely meal, as the chief dish was plain potato-soup.
Mr. Kirkwood’s face brightened at the familiar name, which reminded him of his early home; for he had been abroad for over thirty years, and had only recently returned to Scotland to spend the evening of his days.
“Potato-soup!” said he; “ah, that recalls old times. If it is not presuming on your hospitality, I would like immensely to renew my acquaintance with a very old favourite.”
“With great pleasure,” said Mrs. Barrie, as she showed him into the parlour.
POT-LUCK.
It would be unjust to call Mr. Kirkwood a gourmand, but he was an epicure, fastidious in culinary matters, and an authority in gastronomics. He was accordingly helped to the soup. One spoonful brought a smile, partly of surprise, but quite as much of delight, to his face; the second confirmed the favourable verdict, and the contents of the plate soon disappeared.
He looked at Mrs. Barrie, slightly moved his plate, and said hesitatingly, “May I presume?”
“Most certainly,” said Mrs. Barrie. “I’m so pleased that you relish the soup; it is quite the weather for doing so.”
Plate number two was more leisurely emptied, with certain appreciative motions of the lips and face, and he again cast a lingering look towards the tureen, and said: “Excuse me, madam, I assure you that I never tasted any soup equal to this, although my knocking about the world has familiarized me with nearly every sort and every style of cookery. It’s superb; it’s simply magnificent. Would it be outraging the laws of politeness?” He had again slightly lifted his plate. Mrs. Barrie was greatly pleased, and served out plate number three with her happiest smile, for the table was now a merry one.
When the third plate was finished, she jocularly refilled the soup divider, and, looking toward him, said, “Do allow me.”