“I’m myself, which comes to the same as sayin’ I’m middlin’; w’en I ain’t got a cold in the ’ead I’m sure to have a blister on my ’eel, but I managesterfergitit by not thinkin’ abart myself. Ain’t you ’ungry, sir? I do ’ope so. I’ve got two sich nice chops, pertaties, cabidgeanda cheese.”
“Hungry! I should say I am! The walk across the cliffs is better than any pick-me-up in the world. So on with the chops and out with the cheese.”
The north end of the cottage was occupied by one large room, lit by a long lattice window and a skylight above; a passage ran from the front door right through to the back, and on the south there were two floors, the lower half kitchen, half sitting room, the upper a bedroom reached by a narrow stair from the passage. A snug nest Maddison had thought it, but despite the bright fires in studio and kitchen and Mrs. Witchout’s warm welcome, there was a sense of desolateness about the place that hurt him. He carried his portmanteau up to the bedroom, unstrapped it, then sat down on the edge of the bed and looked out of the open window, through which the breeze came cool and crisp. There lay the sea, spread out like a great, gray drugget, and in the distance the gathering fog. It was dreary.
“Chopson the table!” Mrs. Witchout called up the stairs. “Wat’llyoudrink? Beer?”
“Beer will do A1!”
Again Maddison tried to shake himself free of his oppression, and ran down the stairs.
“You’re a brick, Mrs. Witchout: chops and cheese and beer! Here goes!”
Mrs. Witchout tucked her hands under her apron and looked on approvingly as he set to vigorously.
“Brick!” she said meditatively. “Now I wonders could you explain w’ytheycall pussons ‘bricks’? It’s meant a complimentapparently, but I don’t see ’ow: bricks bein’ ’ardandangular, which I ’ope I ain’t either. Perhaps it alludes to being full baked. Wot do you think, sir?”
“I think it’s a very interesting question and that this is excellent beer. I hope it doesn’t ruin your reputation as a teetotaler your purchasing beer?”