'And there is a scum of fat forming on the gravy, said Reuben Grout, 'just like cat-ice on my duck-pond, or like mardlins[1] in spring on a ditch. Had not I better set the gravy against the fire till the good lady comes down?'
[1] 'Mardlins' are duckweed.
'She is coming,' said Rebow; and then he drummed on the table with his knife. Mrs. Sharland leisurely returned. She was alone.
'Well?' from Rebow.
'Mehalah is not in her room.'
'Curse it!' said Elijah. 'Where is she, then? Go and fetch her.'
'I do not know where she is.'
'She will be here directly,' said Rebow, controlling himself. 'You may fall to, neighbours.'
At the word every fork was plunged into the puddings, and every knife driven into their hearts. Each sought who could appropriate to himself the largest block of pudding. Then there ensued a struggle for the gravy, and great impatience was manifested by those who had to wait till others had well drenched their hunches of dough in the greasy liquor.
Rebow leaned back in his chair, holding knife and fork erect on the table. 'Why is she not here? She ought to be here.'