“I think she is gone out to the garden, sir; she took her trowel and garden gloves, and the little basket wi’ her,” answered the old woman.
“Well, don’t disturb her, we’ll not mind, I’ll see old Mildred.”
So to old Mildred he betook himself.
“Here’s Master Harry come very hungry, so send him anything you can make out, and in the meantime some beer, for he’s thirsty, too, and, like a good old soul, make all the haste you can.”
And with this conciliatory exhortation he returned to the room where he had left his brother.
“Ally has gone out to visit her flowers, but Mildred is doing the best she can for you, and we can go out and join Alice by-and-by, but we are as well to ourselves for a little. I—I want to talk to you.”
“Well, fire away, my boy, with your big oak stick, as the Irishman says, though I’d rather have a mouthful first. Oh, here’s the beer—thank ye, Chick-a-biddy. Where the devil did you get that queer-looking fair one?” he asked, when the Hebe, Lilly Dogger, disappeared; “I’ll lay you fifty it was Ally chose that one.”
And he laughed obstreperously.
And he poured out a tumbler of beer and drank it, and then another and drank it, and poured out a third to keep at hand while he conversed.
“There used to be some old pewter goblets here in the kitchen—I wonder what’s gone wi’ them—they were grand things for drinking beer out of—the pewter, while ye live—there’s nothing like it for beer—or porter, by Jove. Have you got any porter?”