One day coming to a little town, his horses knocked up, and he resolved to
rest them there. The little hotel of the town was a bright and sunny
place, like the jovial face of the clean little woman who kept it, and who
trotted about talking always--talking to the customers in the taproom, and
to the maids in the kitchen, and to the passers-by when she could hail them
from the windows; talking, as good-natured women with large mouths and
small noses always do, in season and out.
There was a little front parlour in the hotel, kept for strangers who
wanted to be alone. Gregory sat there to eat his breakfast, and the
landlady dusted the room and talked of the great finds at the Diamond
Fields, and the badness of maid-servants, and the shameful conduct of the
Dutch parson in that town to the English inhabitants. Gregory ate his
breakfast and listened to nothing. He had asked his one question, and had
had his answer; now she might talk on.
Presently a door in the corner opened and a woman came out--a Mozambiquer,
with a red handkerchief twisted round her head. She carried in her hand a
tray, with a slice of toast crumbled fine, and a half-filled cup of coffee,
and an egg broken open, but not eaten. Her ebony face grinned complacently
as she shut the door softly and said, "Good morning."
The landlady began to talk to her.
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