"What about you, then?" and she touched her left cheek, meaning his. "One like that," she said, "and I should have been in bed for a month—or dead."
"Pépe said I was to keep on feeding you," he continued, passing over, as he always did, she observed, her reference to himself, "and there's been no chance but that beer and cheese. I meant to stuff you again at 'The George.'"
On their left, in the very outskirts of Ecclesthorpe, was a little stone house, roofed with stone slabs, and surrounded with gardens, bee-hives and flowers. Upon a wooden arch connecting its stone gate-posts was written "Cyclists' Rest. Tea, Minerals."
"Um!" said Dick. "'Minerals' always makes me think of museums, but it only means ginger-pop and wuss. Tea's the thing, if brandy isn't."
He pushed the gate open; the hinges screamed, and a young woman came to the door of the cottage. As they went towards her through hives and wallflowers,
"How the bees do bumble!" said Amaryllis.
"Pot o' fresh tea, miss," said Bunce to the round-faced, soft-eyed girl at the door. "And pikelets and parkin an' anything you've got to hand. We've nobbut ten minutes now forth to eat an' drink."
He put two half-crowns on the table.
"An' Ah'll never take change, my dear," he added, "so be 'tis ready in three."
In two and a half they were drinking it, Bunce-like, from the saucers; and Amaryllis once more in danger of the giggles.