So far from being despotic, however, there was a coyness about her very
way of pouring out the tea, which Tom quite revelled in. And when
she asked him what he would like to have for dinner, and faltered
out 'chops' as a reasonably good suggestion after their last
night's successful supper, Tom grew quite facetious, and rallied her
desperately.
'I don't know, Tom,' said his sister, blushing, 'I am not quite
confident, but I think I could make a beef-steak pudding, if I tried,
Tom.'
'In the whole catalogue of cookery, there is nothing I should like so
much as a beef-steak pudding!' cried Tom, slapping his leg to give the
greater force to this reply.
'Yes, dear, that's excellent! But if it should happen not to come quite
right the first time,' his sister faltered; 'if it should happen not
to be a pudding exactly, but should turn out a stew, or a soup, or
something of that sort, you'll not be vexed, Tom, will you?'
The serious way in which she looked at Tom; the way in which Tom looked
at her; and the way in which she gradually broke into a merry laugh at
her own expense, would have enchanted you.
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