The tinker was master of ceremonies, and he served her as any courtier might have served his liege lady. He shook out the diminutive serviette he had brought for her and spread it across her lap; he poured her coffee and sweetened it according to direction; he even buttered her “riz” biscuits and poured the cream on her berries.
“Are ye laboring under the delusion that the duke’s daughter was helpless, entirely?” she asked, at length.
The tinker shook an emphatic negative. “I was just thinkin’ she might like things a mite decent—onct in a while.”
“Lad—lad—who in the wide world are ye!” Patsy checked her outburst with a warning hand: “No—don’t ye be telling me. Ye couldn’t turn out anything better nor a tinker—and I’d rather keep ye as I found ye. So if ye have a secret—mind it well; and don’t ye be letting it loose to scare the two of us into over-wise, conventional folk. We’ll play Willie Shakespeare comedy to the end of the road—please God!”
“Amen!” agreed the tinker, devoutly, as he threw her portion of fried eggs neatly out of the pan into her plate.
It was not until she was served that he looked after his own wants; then they ate in silence, both too hungry and too full of their own thoughts to loosen their tongues.
Once the tinker broke the silence. “Your wish—what was it?” he asked.
“That’s telling,” said Patsy. “But if ye’ll confess to where ye came by this heavenly meal, I might confess to the wish.”
He rubbed his chin solemnly for an instant; then he beamed. “I’ll tell ye. I picked it off o’ the fern-tops and brambles as I came along.”
“Of course ye did,” agreed Patsy, with fine sarcasm, “and for my wish—I was after thinking I’d marry the king’s son.”