Mrs. Mason bustled up the steep little staircase, followed closely by Mildred. She flung open the door with a flourish, and discovered Mr. Rollinson enjoying a tea-dinner, with the Times propped up between his plate and the teapot.
He started to his feet at sight of his visitor like a man distraught, darted forward and shook hands with Mildred, then glanced despairingly at the table. For such a guest he would have liked to have had turtle and ortolans; but a tea-dinner, a vulgar tea-dinner—a dish of pig’s trotters, a couple of new-laid eggs, and a pile of buttered toast! He had thought it a luxurious meal when he sat down to it, five minutes ago, very sharp set.
“My dear Mrs. Greswold, I am enchanted. You have been travelling? Yes. If—if you would share my humble collation—but you are going to dine at the Manor, no doubt.”
“No; I am not going to the Manor. I should be very glad of a cup of tea, if I may have one with you.”
“Mrs. Mason, a fresh teapot, directly, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And could you not get some dinner for Mrs. Greswold? A sole and a chicken, a little asparagus. I saw a bundle in the village the day before yesterday,” suggested the curate feebly.
“On no account. I could not eat any dinner. I will have an egg and a little toast, if you please,” said Mildred, seeing the curate’s distressed look, and not wishing to reject his hospitality.
“Will you really, now? Mrs. Mason’s eggs are excellent; and she makes toast better than any one else in the world, I think,” replied Rollinson, flinging his napkin artfully over the trotters, and with a side glance at Mrs. Mason which implored their removal.
That admirable woman grasped the situation. She whisked off the dish, and the curate’s plate with its litter of bones and mustard. She swept away crumbs, tidied the tea-tray, brought a vase of spring flowers from a cheffonier to adorn the table, lighted a pair of wax candles on the mantelpiece, and gave a touch of elegance to the humble sitting-room, while Mildred was taking off her mantle and bonnet, and sinking wearily into Mr. Rollinson’s easy-chair by the hearth, where a basket of fir-cones replaced the winter fire.