' The other consented; and
calling at the door, they were shown up stairs, but found the faded
beauty dull and spiritless, unable or unwilling to converse on any
subject. 'How's this?' cried one of her consolers, 'are you ill? or
is it but low spirits chains your tongue so?'--'Neither,' replied
she: ''tis hunger I suppose. I ate nothing yesterday, and now 'tis
past six o'clock, and not one penny have I in the world to buy me any
food.'--'Come with us instantly to a tavern; we will treat you with
the best roast fowls and Port wine that London can produce.'--'But I
will have neither my dinner nor my place of eating it prescribed to
_me_,' answered Cuzzona, in a sharper tone, 'else I need never have
wanted.' 'Forgive me,' cries the friend; 'do your own way; but eat in
the name of God, and restore fainting nature.'--She thanked him then;
and, calling to her a friendly wretch who inhabited the same theatre
of misery, gave _him_ the guinea the visitor accompanied his last
words with; 'and run with this money,' said she, 'to such a
wine-merchant,' (naming him); 'he is the only one keeps good Tokay by
him. 'Tis a guinea a bottle, mind you,' to the boy; 'and bid the
gentleman you buy it of give you a loaf into the bargain,--he won't
refuse.' In half an hour or less the lad returned with the Tokay.
'But where,' cries Cuzzona, 'is the loaf I spoke for?' 'The merchant
would give me no loaf,' replies her messenger; 'he drove me from the
door, and asked if I took him for a baker.
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