That afternoon, in the camp square, Liu Acheng sat on a new but simple bench, holding a bowl of Sour Soup with Egg-Drop Bo Duo and eating. Luo You ate beside him, but he was not used to holding his bowl, so an equally simple and new low table had been set before him. Both kept their heads down and ate with great concentration.
Quite a few others nearby also held bowls, though many were rather distracted, stealing occasional glances at the pair.
Understandably so. None of them were celebrated gentlemen of the South of the Yangtze; the highest-ranking among them was merely a Refugee Commander. They all knew that meals demanded serious attention and had no habit of stripping off their clothes and going mad halfway through. At most, while eating this extra meal, they took another look at Liu Acheng, unquestionably the central figure today, and the guest whose standing was supposedly no different from his.
Did he seem to enjoy the food? Had they entertained him properly this time? Or perhaps they only felt reassured after seeing him eat with relish: even after becoming a marquis, Liu Acheng was still the flute-playing lad of old. But some had simply been frightened by the fit of weeping he had unleashed on the hillside earlier, and could not help watching him now, just in case.
By the time Liu Acheng had eaten two large bowls, Luo You had finished three. The latter wanted more, but the former stopped him, telling him to save room for some Cold-Food Pastry that evening. As for now, with the sun warm and so much bo duo in their bellies, it was the perfect time for an afternoon nap.
Luo You readily accepted the advice and exercised a little restraint. Wrapping himself in a