Mrs. Stirring looked dismay unutterable, but Dorothea's quiet manner allowed no opposition. She retreated to the kitchen, murmuring to herself.
At dinner-time, punctual to the moment, Colonel Tracy returned. While no less gloomy than the evening before, he was evidently in a state of hunger. That became apparent at once, by the manner in which he took a seat at the table, and looked round.
No soup! No fish! No hot joint! Only cold mutton, potatoes, and pickle. Dorothea would have counted pickle an extravagance, had they not had it in the house.
"Hallo!" uttered the Colonel, and his jaw fell. The girl, putting a plate on the sideboard, fled, rather to Dorothea's relief.
"I thought we ought to begin to economise at once, father, after what you told me yesterday evening," said Dorothea in her gentlest manner.
"My dear, you don't suppose I can live on cold mutton!"
"But if you are bankrupt—"
"My dear, you talk rubbish! It's all very well for—you!" said the Colonel, not exactly knowing what he said, perhaps. "I couldn't do it! Impossible! Pray, have you nothing else in the house than—this!" in a tone of intense disdain.
"I didn't think it would be right to get anything more, as we had enough. You were out, so I could not ask you."
The Colonel sliced away in solemn silence, helped Dorothea, helped himself, and ate without a word. If Dorothea spoke, he made no answer. When the meat was taken away, he looked out eagerly and his jaw dropped anew at the sight of one small pudding.