Mrs. Balliol was reassured. But neither during their walk home nor ever after, did Mr. Rhys tell Eleanor of this little bit of talk that had concerned her.
CHAPTER XX.
AT WORK.
"My Lady comes; my Lady goes; he can see her day by day,
And bless his eyes with her beauty, and with blessings strew her way."
The breakfast-table was as much of a mystery to Eleanor as the dinner had been. Not because it looked so homelike; though in the early morning the doors and windows were all open and the sunlight streaming through on Mrs. Caxton's china cups and silver spoons. It all looked foreign enough yet, among those palm-fern pillars, and on the Fijian mat with its border made of red worsted ends and little white feathers. The basket of fruit, too, on the table, did not look like England. But the tea was unexceptionable, and there was a piece of fresh fish as perfectly broiled as if it had been brought over by some genius or fairy, smoking hot, from an English gridiron. And in the order and arrangements of the table, there had been something more than native skill and taste, Eleanor was sure.
"It seems to me, Mr. Rhys," she said, "that the Fijians are remarkably good cooks!"
"Uncommon, for savages," said Mr. Rhys with perfect gravity.
"This fish is excellent."
"There is no better fish-market in the world, for variety and abundance, than we have here."
"But I mean, it is broiled just like an English fish. Isaac Walton himself would be satisfied with it."