What's that smell of flowers?"
"It's from those 'yacinths on the sideboard, sir. They come from Mrs.
Larne, this afternoon."
"Put 'em on the table. Where's my daughter?"
"She's had dinner, sir; goin' to a ball, I think."
"A ball!"
"Charity ball, I fancy, sir."
"Ummm! Give me a touch of the old sherry with the soup."
"Yes, sir. I shall have to open a bottle:"
"Very well, then, do!"
On his way to the cellar the man confided to Molly, who was carrying the
soup:
"The Gov'nor's going it to-night! What he'll be like tomorrow I dunno."
The girl answered softly:
"Poor old man, let um have his pleasure." And, in the hall, with the
soup tureen against her bosom, she hummed above the steam, and thought
of the ribbons on her new chemises, bought out of the sovereign he had
given her.
And old Heythorp, digesting his osyters, snuffed the scent of the
hyacinths, and thought of the St. Germain, his favourite soup. It
would n't be first-rate, at this time of year--should be made with
little young home-grown peas. Paris was the place for it. Ah! The French
were the fellows for eating, and--looking things in the face! Not
hypocrites--not ashamed of their reason or their senses!
The soup came in.
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