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Artifondo smiled wryly at the pleasant maid's reaction to his offer. Utter bemusement. He might as well have offered to sell her a young dragon. A little consultation, and confusion had become distaste, with a touch of pity. Eating thistles, forsooth...and this was what his father fondly imagined would become the King of Arnor's favourite dish...
"Thankyou," he gasped gratefully, as, without having to be asked, she produced an ale; not too large, and beautifully cold to the lips. He had to control his desire to gulp and slurp like a hog; he succeeded in this, but managed to splash some of the cooling drink down his yellow waistcoat. He watched, disinterestedly, as the pale yellow satin became a strange combination of beige, peach, and umber, the stain extending down like a malevolent claw. His formidable elder sister, Ursula Dwellover, who had run the household since Mrs Dwellover's death, would not be pleased. Wishing to hide his latest piece of clumsiness from Ginger, he quickly drew his cloak across his front, which, since it was fairly hot, he found decidedly uncomfortable.
The lass suggested that he stay and wait for the Cook, and without waiting to hear his affirmative mumble offered to take his cloak. He blushed beetroot-scarlet. Had she seen his spillage? "Ah, urm, well, no, I mean...oh, nevermind, thankyou, yes." He took off his cloak, folded it badly, and passed it over with a faintly aggrieved air.
Her offer of lunch was tempting; Artifondo, an atypical Hobbit in some ways, had a perfectly usual appetite, especially for wild mushroom soup. He thought of Ursula, who would be bustling about preparing lunch; he thought of the bizarre pasties and salads Grizel, his younger sister, liked to create with artichokes; his eyes returned finally to the stain on his waistcoat, his mind to Ursula's temper. All guilt at missing lunch at home evaporated.
"That would be wonderful, miss, and I'll take the cheese too..."
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