My mired boots played havoc with the neatly sanded floor; but the old
woman dusted a chair for me as carefully as if I had worn robes of
state, and set it on the other side of the hearth. Then she put the
kettle to boil, and unhitching a cup from the dresser, took a key
from it, and opened a small cupboard between the fireplace and the
wall. That which she sought stood on the top shelf and she had to
climb on a chair to reach it. I offered my help: but no--she would
get it herself. It proved to be a small green canister.
The tea that came from this canister I wish I could describe.
No sooner did the boiling water touch it than the room was filled
with fragrance. The dotard in the chair drew a long breath through
his nostrils, as though the aroma touched some quick centre in his
moribund brain. The woman poured out a cup, and I sipped it.
"Smuggled," I thought to myself; for indeed you cannot get such tea
in London if you pay fifty shillings a pound.
"You like it?" she asked. Before I could answer, a small table stood
at my elbow, and she was loading it with delicacies from the
cupboard. The contents of that cupboard! Caviare came from it, and
a small ambrosial cheese; dried figs and guava jelly; olives,
cherries in brandy, wonderful filberts glazed with sugar; biscuits
and all manner of queer Russian sweets. I leant back with wide eyes.
"Feodor sends us these," said the old woman, bringing a dish of
Cornish cream and a home-made loaf to give the feast a basis.
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