“What old Margery!—old Margery Nutmeg still here!” A shadow fell upon Ellinor’s face—the next moment it was gone. “Ugh! How I always hated that woman! I had forgotten all about her. It is a way I have: I forget the unpleasant! Well!” with a laugh, “now I understand. But I’ll warrant her well-cushioned frame is not supported upon the diet of wholesomeness meted out to you! Heavens! but what is this dreadful little mess in the brown bowl?”
“Belphegor’s supper,” answered his master with rebuking gravity.
“They treat him no better than they do you, father!”
She paused, took the edge of the tablecloth between her taper finger and thumb and thrust out a disdainful lip.
“What a cloth! Not even quite clean!”
“Mrs. Nutmeg has limited us. Barnaby has an unfortunate propensity for upsetting things,” humbly interposed the philosopher.
“Then Barnaby, whoever he is, ought to be soundly trounced,” asserted Mrs. Marvel.
She wheeled round on the boy, who still stared at her with round eyes—but her father laid an averting hand upon her arm.
“Hush,” he said, inconsequently lowering his voice, “the poor lad is deaf and dumb.”
“Deaf and dumb, your servant?”