They had their little dreams about her. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. She had never been so happy to vomit. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen.
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