"How am I to know, then, when meals are ready?" Rotha asked.
"I don' know," said Mr. Purcell; and his wife added nothing. Rotha began to consider what was her best mode of action. This sort of experience, she felt, would be unendurable.
The table was set with coarse but clean cloth and crockery. I might say much the same of the viands. The bread however was very good, and even delicate. Besides bread and butter there was cold boiled pickled pork, cold potatoes, and a plate of raw onions cut up in vinegar. Mr. Purcell helped Rotha to the two first-named articles.
"Like inguns?"
"Onions? Yes, sometimes," said Rotha, "when they are cooked."
"These is rareripes. First rate—best thing on table. Better 'n if they was cooked. Try 'em?"
"No, thank you."
"I knowed she wouldn't, Joe," said Mrs. Purcell, setting down Rotha's cup of tea. "What us likes wouldn't suit the likes o' her. She's from the City o' Pride. Us is country folks, and don't know nothin'."
"I've a kind o' tender pity for the folks as don't know inguns," said Mr.
Purcell. "It's them what don't know nothin'."
"She don't want your pity, neither," returned his wife. "I'd keep it, if I was you. Or you may pity her for havin' to eat along with we; it's that as goes hard."