“‘Silly,’ says she, quite the lady. ‘How’s that?’ says I; to which she says, ‘Not at all,’ says she, and the same to you and many of them,” was the doctor’s reply.
Elsie giggled wildly.
“Come along now, tell that slut in the kitchen to stir her stumps and bring some food to the dining-room. Have you had your supper yet?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Then you and I will make a party-carry, otherwise a tête-à-tête, otherwise a night of it. Run along and I’ll get out something that will make your hair curl.”
Elsie had heard this formula before, and understood that the doctor would unlock the door of the tiny wine-cellar and bring out a bottle.
She told the maid to bring supper for Doctor Woolley to the dining-room, but she herself carried in her own plate and cup and saucer, knowing that Florrie was quite aware she had already eaten her evening meal with Mrs. Woolley.
The doctor was drawing the cork out of a bottle as she came into the room. The electric light was turned on, and the small dining-room, with drawn red curtains, and the gas-fire burning, was bright and hot.
The doctor ate heavily of cold meat and pickles, prodding with a fork amongst the mixed contents of the glass jar until he had annexed all the pickled onions that it contained.
He made Elsie sit down and eat too, but he made no demur to her assurance that she wasn’t hungry and only wanted some cake and a cup of cocoa.