"Supper is late to-night, is it not, Jacintha?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; I have had more cooking than usual," and with this
she delivered another point-blank look as before, and dived into the
palpable obscure, and came to light in the doorway.
Her return was anxiously expected; for, if the truth must be told,
they were very hungry. So rigorous was the economy in this decayed but
honorable house that the wax candles burned to-day in the oratory had
scrimped their dinner, unsubstantial as it was wont to be. Think of
that, you in fustian jackets who grumble after meat. The door opened,
Jacintha reappeared in the light of her candle a moment with a tray
in both hands, and, approaching, was lost to view; but a strange and
fragrant smell heralded her. All their eyes turned with curiosity
towards the unwonted odor, and Jacintha dawned with three roast
partridges on a dish.
They were wonder-struck, and looked from the birds to her in mute
surprise, that was not diminished by a certain cynical indifference
she put on. She avoided their eyes, and forcibly excluded from her face
everything that could imply she did not serve up partridges to this
family every night of her life.
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