“We may as well all go, and have our picnic on our own verandah,” said Minna, complainingly, and though Doctor Varian would have preferred that to any further exertions, he did not say so.
“It’s always like this,” Minna’s querulous voice went on; “whenever we start to go anywhere, somebody has to go back for something and they’re so slow and so inconsiderate of other people’s feelings——”
“There they go,” interrupted Doctor Varian as the two latest emissaries went up over the rocks. “Now the house will swallow them up!”
“Oh, Herbert, don’t say such awful things,” wailed Minna; “you sound positively creepy! I have a feeling of fear of that house anyway,—I believe it would like to swallow people up!”
“Ought we to intrude?” Claire Blackwood laughingly asked of Landon, as they neared the house; “if Betty and her father want to quarrel, they ought to be allowed to do so in peace.”
“Oh, well, if they insist, we’ll go away again, and let them have it out comfortably. Queer thing, for Daughter and Dad to make a habit of scrapping!”
“I take Mrs Varian’s statements with a grain of salt,” said Claire, sagely. “She’s not awfully well balanced, that woman, and I doubt if Betty and her father are half as black as they’re painted. Shall we ring the bell or walk right in?”
But this question needed no answer, for as they mounted the steps of the verandah and neared the open front door, they were confronted by the sight of Mr Frederick Varian sprawled at full length on the floor of the hall.
“Oh, heavens, what is the matter?” cried Claire; “the man has had a stroke or something!”
Landon went nearer, and with a grave face, stooped down to the prostrate figure.