The tea-table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between it and Mrs. Clenman’s own particular table. Mr. Blandois in his gallantry had risen to hand the lady her tea (her dish of toast was already there), and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that the red teapot on its doily before her attracted his attention.
‘May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned vessel’ he said, picking it up. ‘Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself!’
Mr. Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, began to do so: always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it at a gulp; and always deliberating again before he refilled it. Mr. Blandois stood up. ‘This is an old room,’ he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking round as he approached the bookcase, ‘I have been so interested in the teapot that I have not observed it. But it’s a genuine old room.’
‘It is a genuine old house,’ said Mrs. Clennam, with her frozen smile. ‘A place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity.’
The scones ain’t bad either.
Open 11am – 7pm, Friday, Saturdays, and Sundays.
5326, Blvd. Saint-Laurent