His palate was undimmed, his digestion unimpaired. He could
still eat as much as two men, and drink more than one. And while he
savoured each mouthful he never spoke if he could help it. The holy
woman had nothing to say that he cared to hear, and he nothing to say
that she cared to listen to. She had a horror, too, of what she called
"the pleasures of the table"--those lusts of the flesh! She was always
longing to dock his grub, he knew. Would see her further first! What
other pleasures were there at his age? Let her wait till she was eighty.
But she never would be; too thin and holy!
This evening, however, with the advent of the partridge she did speak.
"Who were your visitors, Father?"
Trust her for nosing anything out! Fixing his little blue eyes on her,
he mumbled with a very full mouth: "Ladies."
"So I saw; what ladies?"
He had a longing to say: 'Part of one of my families under the rose.'
As a fact it was the best part of the only one, but the temptation
to multiply exceedingly was almost overpowering. He checked himself,
however, and went on eating partridge, his secret irritation crimsoning
his cheeks; and he watched her eyes, those cold precise and round grey
eyes, noting it, and knew she was thinking: 'He eats too much.
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