“Young Mr. Yorke, do you see anything the matter with that ham? Please to tell me.”
“I see that it looks uncommonly good,” replied Roland.
“Do you hear?” sharply ejaculated Mrs. Jenkins, turning short round upon her husband.
“My dear, I never said a word but what it was good; I never had any other thought,” returned he, with deprecation. “I only said that I could not eat it. I can’t—indeed, I can’t! My appetite is gone.”
Mrs. Jenkins put the dish down upon the table with a jerk. “That’s how he goes on,” said she to Roland. “It’s enough to wear a woman’s patience out! I get him muffins, I get him ham, I get him fowls, I get him fish, I get him puddings, I get him every conceivable nicety that I can think of, and not a thing will he touch. All the satisfaction I can get from him is, that ‘his stomach turns against food!’”
“I wish I could eat,” interposed Jenkins, mildly. “I have tried to do it till I can try no longer. I wish I could.”
“Will you take some of this ham, young Mr. Yorke?” she asked. “He won’t. He wants to know what scarcity of food is!”
“I’ll take it all, if you like,” said Roland. “If it’s going begging.”
Mrs. Jenkins accommodated him with a plate and knife and fork, and with some more muffins. Roland did ample justice to the whole, despatching it down with about six cups of good tea, well sugared and creamed. Jenkins looked on with satisfaction, and Mrs. Jenkins appeared to regard it in the light of a personal compliment, as chief of the commissariat department.
“And now,” said Roland, turning back to the fire, “when are you coming out again, Jenkins?”