"Taro; one of the valuable things with which nature has blessed Fiji. The natives cultivate it well and carefully. That is yam; and came from a root five and a half feet long. Eleanor—I do not at all comprehend how you come to be sitting there!"
It was so strange and new to Eleanor, and Mr. Rhys was such a compound of things new and things old to her, that a little chance word like this was enough to make her flutter and change colour. He perceived it, and bent his attention to amuse her with the matters of the table; and told her wonders of the natural productions of Fiji. But in the midst of this Mr. Rhys's hand would come abstracting her tea-cup to fill it again; and then Eleanor watched while he did it; and he made himself a little private amusement about getting it sugared right and finding how she liked it; and Eleanor wondered at him and her tea-cup together, and stirred her tea in a subdued state of mind.
"One hardly expects to see such a nice little teaspoon in Fiji," she remarked.
"Aunt Caxton, again," said Mr. Rhys.
"But Mr. Rhys, your Fijians must be remarkable cooks! Or have you taught them?"
"I have taught nobody in that line."
"Then are they not remarkable for their skill in cookery?"
"As a nation, I think they are; and it is one evidence of their mental development. They have a great variety of native dishes, some of which, I believe, are not despicable."
"But these are English dishes."
"Do justice to them, then, like a good Englishwoman."