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Thornton did not regret, since it would rescue the poor creature from her present unhappy confinement. "The first thing he did was to loose him from the chain, and carry him home, where his diet was changed from scalded bread to toast and butter for breakfast, and potatoes, dumplings, and fruit for dinner.
We set to work eagerly enough however, notwithstanding our indignation. With the help of our tea-spoons we scraped off a good deal of butter and put it carefully aside ready to be spread on again. "The worst of it is it'll be such awfully thick toast," I said, looking at the sturdy slices with regret. "I wish we could split them." "But we can't," said Tom, "we've no knife.
Other people might celebrate saints dead and gone, and drink to 'La Patrie', and cry "Vive Napoleon!" or "Vive la Republique!" or "Vive la Reine!" though this last toast of the Empire was none too common but he could only drink with real sincerity to the health of Sebastian Dolores, which was himself. Sebastian Dolores was the pure anarchist, the most complete of monomaniacs.
That was his supreme characteristic, and it was with him, like others, from the first. A contemporary of his at Eton once told me of a scene, at which my informant was present, when some loose or indelicate toast was proposed, and all present drank it but young Gladstone.
"How many lumps?" demanded the pouring flapper. "Just as you like; I'm not fussy," he answered. This was untrue. His preference in the matter was decided, but he could not remember what it was. Afterward he knew that he did not take sugar in his tea, but the flapper had sweetened it with three lumps. Grandma again addressed him, engaging his difficult attention with a brandished fragment of toast.
His instructions in this regard were short and explicit, for the weakened state of his stomach no longer permitted him to absorb heavy or varied foods. In winter, at five o'clock in the afternoon, when the day was drawing to a close, he breakfasted on two boiled eggs, toast and tea. At eleven o'clock he dined.
"You know everybody here, I suppose?" he asked, drinking his tea with relish, and eating the toast which seemed to him crisply English, but always faintly aware of that still figure and of that downbent face. "Almost everybody. I've sung a great deal, and got to know them all partly through that. And they're dear people most of them. They let one alone when they know one wants to be alone."
Presently she undressed and went to bed. In the morning she did not go down to breakfast, and when Sophia came to inquire, requested that the stage be ordered for the noon train. She said that she was sorry, but was ill, and feared lest she might be worse, and she felt that she must return home at once. She looked ill, and could not take even the toast and tea which Sophia had prepared for her.
Peggy, I warn you that when you look so preposterously cheerful, it makes me feel like throwing something." Peggy laughed, and helped herself to toast. "I was only thinking that if we were going to keep the Fourth of July indoors, we'd have to have a flag of some sort." "You don't mean you'd go three miles in this rain after a flag, Peggy. And, anyway, the store would be closed for the Fourth."
Always when they left, they were loaded down with apples, doughnuts, caraway cakes and other toothsome things which little ones love. Along the edges of the pantry shelves hung rows of shining pewter porringers, and the pride of the children's lives was to eat "cider toast" out of them.
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