“That’ll suit me,” declared Swan, entering the room.
The table was neatly set out for three, with glasses, shining knives and forks, an attractive roll of bread at each plate. She went to the kitchen.
“We’ve got a fowel,” whispered the child importantly. “Roast fowel!”
“You’re welcome to my share,” he answered.
This, repeated with some extravagance, caused the child’s mother to stop as she came in with the dish. She said “Oh!” in such a pained way that he hastened to assure her no reflection upon her culinary skill was intended; the internal complaint from which he was suffering had to take the responsibility. The child said grace.
“You’re a first-rate carver,” he said interestedly.
“It’s a tender bird,” she remarked.
“Looks to me as though it’s beautifully done,” declared the astonished Swan, his mouth watering.
“I was cook in a good family before I married my first,” she explained. “If you’ve once learnt, you never forget. When I get a lodger who keeps good hours I take a pride in preparing his meals. When he doesn’t, I know enough about cooking to cook so that he doesn’t want to stop.”
The staff subscribed threepences, and bought a fish knife and fork. Porter Swan sent in an application for leave, and for passes—passes for two: self and wife.