Here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France.

And what do you suppose it's made of?
Livers of fat geese.

There's a pie! Now let's see you eat 'em." "Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but I hope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me." "Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all understand, and threw them both out of window.
He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and to be studious, and shook hands with me.

I must say I was relieved by his departure.

We left him at a milestone.