“Notice anything peculiar between their shoulders, either of you—any strange sprouting growth?”
“Goodness, gracious! no,” exclaimed Mrs Pellet, with a shudder. “Why, what do you mean? Surely there’s no dreadful infectious thing about for which they are sickening? Surely Patty has brought home nothing from that dreadful place of Wragg’s? What do you mean?”
“Oh! nothing,” said Jared, coolly; “only you seemed under the impression that the little ones were, or ought to be, angels, and I was anxious to hear of the advent of sprouting wings.”
“Stuff!” ejaculated Mrs Jared; and then, directly after, “just look here at Totty’s boots.”
“Well, they are on the go,” said Jared, turning the little leather understandings in his hands.
“On the go!” said his wife; “why they’re quite gone. It does seem such a thing when he’s rolling in riches!”
“Who? Totty?” said Jared, innocently.
“Stuff!” said Mrs Jared, in her impetuous way. “Why, Richard, to be sure. He could buy oceans of boots, and never feel the loss.”
“Very true,” said Jared, without pausing to think what number of pairs would form oceans. “But then, my dear, he’d have no Tottys to put in them.”
“And a good thing, too,” said Mrs Jared, “seeing what an expense they are.”