She wrote out the recipe for this and gave it to my
mother a year or two before she died, but we could never make it as
she did. When we were children she used sometimes to send her respects
to my mother, and ask leave for us to come and take tea with her.
Right well she used to ply us. As for her temper, we never met such
a delightful old lady in our lives; whatever Mr. Pontifex may have had
to put up with, we had no cause for complaint, and then Mr. Pontifex
would play to us upon the organ, and we would stand round him
open-mouthed and think him the most wonderfully clever man that ever
was born, except of course our papa.
Mrs. Pontifex had no sense of humour, at least I can call to mind no
signs of this, but her husband had plenty of full in him, though few
would have guessed it from his appearance. I remember my father once
sent me down to his workshop to get some glue, and I happened to
come when old Pontifex was in the act of scolding his boy. He had
got the lad- a pudding-headed fellow- by the ear and was saying,
"What? Lost again- smothered o' wit." (I believe it was the boy who
was himself supposed to be a wandering soul, and who was thus
addressed as lost.
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