“But why the dickens didn’t you write to us, and let us know?”
“Well, we were going to write every day,” said Charley, with a peculiar look at Maude; “but we could never agree as to whose duty it was. We should have written though.”
“But—but—I think you ought to have written, Charley Melton. You see I’ve been very anxious about my darling Maude.”
“It was very cruel, papa dear; but really I did mean to write, soon.”
“I’m very glad of that,” said Lord Barmouth; “for really, Maude, my darling, you have frightened me so. I shall have a horrible fit of the gout after this.”
“Never mind, dad; stop and have it here, and Maudey and I will nurse you—won’t we, old girl?” cried Tom. “For gout at home just now would be awful. Oh!” he shrieked, once more going off into convulsions, “won’t the old girl be mad!”
“Yes, my dears,” said Lord Barmouth, shaking away very heartily at Charley Melton’s hands, “I’m afraid she’ll be very cross. But do you know, I fancy I’ve caught a bit o’ cold.”
“Never mind, father, we’re going to catch it hot,” said Tom.
“Yes, my boy; but—but I feel a little deaf, and my head is rather thick.”
“Never mind, old fellow, we’ve found her.”