One's palate gets so tired of the old hackneyed things: here was a dish with a new flavour, with a taste like nothing else on earth.
And it was nourishing, too.

As George said, there was good stuff in it.
The peas and potatoes might have been a bit softer, but we all had good teeth, so that did not matter much: and as for the gravy, it was a poem--a little too rich, perhaps, for a weak stomach, but nutritious.
We finished up with tea and cherry tart.

Montmorency had a fight with the kettle during tea-time, and came off a poor second.
Throughout the trip, he had manifested great curiosity concerning the kettle.

He would sit and watch it, as it boiled, with a puzzled expression, and would try and rouse it every now and then by growling at it.

When it began to splutter and steam, he regarded it as a challenge, and would want to fight it, only, at that precise moment, some one would always dash up and bear off his prey before he could get at it.
To-day he determined he would be beforehand.