She gave a little wince at that, but asked if he would offer her some coffee. South was famous in a small way for making it, and his friends, when out of humor with the world, would come and watch the brown liquid bubble through the valves of some strange machine of copper and nacreous glass he had picked up in the East, and regain their “values” over a cup.
He pushed a hanging kettle across the flame, and knelt down by his visitor to stir the fire.
“Turkish?” he inquired.
“That’s the gritty stuff, isn’t it? No, the other; and black. Why is your hair so long?”
“Is it? I’ve forgotten it. What is this on your shoe?”
“The gold?”
“Yes.”
“Letters.”
“What?”
“R. E. V.”