“No, ma'am,” returned Paul after a pause, “I believe not, to-day.”
“Very moderate, upon my word,” exclaimed Mrs. Mudge, giving vent at length to her pentup indignation. “You'll be contented with butter and roast beef and plum-pudding! A mighty fine gentleman, to be sure. But you won't get them here, I'll be bound.”
“So will I,” thought Aunt Lucy.
“If you ain't satisfied with what I give you,” pursued Mrs. Mudge, “you'd better go somewhere else. You can put up at some of the great hotels. Butter, forsooth!”
Having thus given expression to her feelings, she left the room, and Paul was left to finish his dinner with the best appetite he could command. He was conscious that he had offended Mrs. Mudge, but the thoughts of his recent great sorrow swallowed up all minor annoyances, so that the words of his estimable landlady were forgotten almost as soon as they were uttered. He felt that he must henceforth look for far different treatment from that to which he had been accustomed during his father's lifetime.
His thoughts were interrupted in a manner somewhat ludicrous, by the crazy girl who sat next to him coolly appropriating to herself his bowl of soup, having already disposed of her own.
“Look,” said Aunt Lucy, quickly, calling Paul's attention, “you are losing your dinner.”
“Never mind,” said Paul, amused in spite of his sadness, “she is quite welcome to it if she likes it; I can't eat it.”
So the dinner began and ended. It was very brief and simple, occupying less than ten minutes, and comprising only one course—unless the soup was considered the first course, and the bread the second. Paul left the table as hungry as he came to it. Aunt Lucy's appetite had become accustomed to the Mudge diet, and she wisely ate what was set before her, knowing that there was no hope of anything better.
About an hour after dinner Ben Newcome came to the door of the Poor House and inquired for Paul.