“Sit down, Luke Vine.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. Sit too much as it is. Don’t get enough exercise.”
“You shall go up and see John, as soon as he wakes.”
“No, thankye. What’s the use? I couldn’t do him any good. One’s getting old now. No time to spare. Pity to waste what’s left.”
“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs Van Heldre, bridling. “Of all men to talk like that, you ought to be the last. I’ll go up and see whether he is awake.”
“Poor little woman,” said Uncle Luke, as she left the room. “Always puts me in mind, George, of a pink and white bantam hen.”
“As good a little woman as ever breathed, Luke.”
“Yes, of course; but it’s comic to see her ruffle up her feathers and go off in a huff. How’s Lou?”
“Not very well, Luke. Poor girl, she frets. I shall have to take her away.”
“Rubbish! She’ll be all right directly. Women have no brains.”