“Put one in each pocket. Finest things in the world to keep your hands warm.” As she followed his advice he nodded encouragingly.
“That’s the way. It’s a fire and a good dinner all in one. I’ve a very great regard for a baked potato; it’s the president of the republic of vegetables, as the hot pie is the dowager queen of confectionery.”
“What do you call a hot pie?”
“Just that! They used to be cooked in the streets in little portable ovens. Did you never meet a pieman?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Daresay not, for the last one died two years ago. A fine fellow he was. I went to his funeral.”
“I’d love to have seen a real pieman. Didn’t Simple Simon meet one going to a fair?”
“So it’s said.”
“And now they’ve all gone for ever. How sad!”
“Tell you what,” exclaimed Wynne, “there’s an old man Richmond way who sells hot turnovers. When the spring comes we might ’bus down there, have a walk in the park, and munch turnovers in the night on the way home.”