“You certainly have. Well, until breakfast is ready I'll glance over the Times. Have you seen it?”
“The Times? Oh, dear me, this is it which I have under my spirit-lamp. I am afraid there is some acid upon that too, and it is rather damp and torn. Here it is.”
The Doctor took the bedraggled paper with a rueful face. “Everything seems to be wrong to-day,” he remarked. “What is this sudden enthusiasm about chemistry, Ida?”
“Oh, I am trying to live up to Mrs. Westmacott's teaching.”
“Quite right! quite right!” said he, though perhaps with less heartiness than he had shown the day before. “Ah, here is breakfast at last!”
But nothing was comfortable that morning. There were eggs without egg-spoons, toast which was leathery from being kept, dried-up rashers, and grounds in the coffee. Above all, there was that dreadful smell which pervaded everything and gave a horrible twang to every mouthful.
“I don't wish to put a damper upon your studies, Ida,” said the Doctor, as he pushed back his chair. “But I do think it would be better if you did your chemical experiments a little later in the day.”
“But Mrs. Westmacott says that women should rise early, and do their work before breakfast.”
“Then they should choose some other room besides the breakfast-room.” The Doctor was becoming just a little ruffled. A turn in the open air would soothe him, he thought. “Where are my boots?” he asked.
But they were not in their accustomed corner by his chair. Up and down he searched, while the three servants took up the quest, stooping and peeping under book-cases and drawers. Ida had returned to her studies, and Clara to her blue-covered volume, sitting absorbed and disinterested amid the bustle and the racket. At last a general buzz of congratulation announced that the cook had discovered the boots hung up among the hats in the hall. The Doctor, very red and flustered, drew them on, and stamped off to join the Admiral in his morning walk.