“Very soon, I hope, papa. Neil mentions Maria in his letter this morning.”
“Eh? Neil written to you?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Elthorne, making a dig at a pat of butter as it floated in water in the cooler, splashing some of the water over the cloth, and harpooning the said pat so insecurely that it dropped off his knife before it reached his plate. “I think it would be more creditable to Neil if he wrote a little more often to his father.”
Alison Elthorne exchanged glances with his sister, and his lips moved as if he were speaking words which Isabel interpreted to mean, “Got out of bed wrong way.”
The breakfast went on. Mr Elthorne placed a pair of spring folding glasses on his well-cut aquiline nose, and took up and frowned at a letter. “When’s Neil coming down?”
“He did not say, papa. He writes that poor Maria causes him a great deal of anxiety.”
“Poor Maria? I think she ought to be very glad and grateful. It is wonderful what is done for the poor in this country. Here is this girl, taken up to London free of expense, placed in a magnificent institution, and receives the attention of such an eminent man as—hah, not a bad cup of tea,”—a long breath drawn after a hearty draught—“as Sir Denton Hayle, without counting that of Neil. Is your aunt coming down to breakfast, or is she not?”
“She will be down soon, papa. She—she rather overslept herself.”
“Rubbish! Idleness! Pure idleness! She knows how I hate to see an empty chair at the table. Professes to keep house, and is never in her place at proper time. Keep house, indeed! Eggs like leaden bullets; toasts and kidneys like leather; tea half cold and not fit to drink; and—”