The little man’s beady black eyes twinkled knowingly.  “A true cook, Master Bouverel, takes all good things where he finds them.  I make bouillabaisse for those who like it, but—­between you and me—­Norman matelote of fish is just as good.  I cook pigeon broth as they do in Boulogne, I make black bean soup as they do in Spain.  I was born in Boulogne, but I have cooked in many other places—­in Avignon, where they say the angels taught them how to cook—­Messina, Paris, Genoa, all over Aquitaine with the routiers.  Perigueux is a very agreeable place—­you know the truffles there?  I cook sometimes cutlets of lamb and veal in a casserole with truffles, mushrooms, bacon in strips, a lemon sliced, shallots, some chicken stock, and herbs—­yes, that is very good.  Oh, I can cook for French, Norman, Gascon, Spanish, Lombard—­any people.  Only in Goslar.  That was one horreeble place, Goslar!  The people eat pork and cabbage, pork and cabbage, and black bread—­chut!” He made a grimace at the memory.

“I fear you will find some of that sort among our English travelers,” said Gilbert Gay amusedly.  “Not all of them will appreciate—­what was that you gave us in Paris? epigrammes of lamb, the cutlets dipped in chicken stock and fried.  Swine are still among our chief domestic animals.”

“Oh, as to that,” said the chef quickly, “I am not too proud to cook for people who like simple things—­meat broiled and roasted with plain bread.  And do you know that one must be a very fine cook to do such work well?  When I am alone, which is not often, I prepare for myself fresh vegetables, broil a fish that has not forgotten the water,—­and with a roll and a little fruit, that is my dinner.  The soteltes at kings’ tables, all colored sugar and pastry and isinglass—­they are only good for people who can eat peacock, and those are very few.  Do you know, Master Gay, what is the great secret of my art?  To know what is good, and not spoil it.”

“I foresee,” laughed the merchant, “that we shall all be making excuses to come down from London if you stay in Sussex with your saucepans.  But hey! there are the towers of the abbey already, and it is not yet mid-afternoon.  Let us ride on to see Wilfrid and find out whether he approves of our fine plan.”

While this discussion of the noble art of cookery was going on miles away, Wilfrid and Edwitha, with no thought of inns, were watching the laborers digging where Wilfrid thought the rest of the building ought to be.  In his travels he had seen other Roman houses better preserved than this, and by inquiring of learned men had gained some idea of Roman civilization.  He had been told that Roman officials in England often built villas in places rather like this terrace, and since the building already unearthed was the end of the walls in one direction, the rest of the villa might be found under the cottage of old Bartram and his orchard, garden and cow-byre.