“Yes, yes, my dear Arthur!” said the little petulant lady, placing her hands upon her tall, thin brother’s shoulders once more to pull him down to be kissed, “I know you would; but you are so tiresome.”
“I’m—I’m afraid I am, my dear Mary. I think sometimes that I must be very stupid.”
“Nonsense, Arthur; you are not. You are one of the best and cleverest of men; but you do get so lost in your studies that you forget all ordinary troubles of life. Why, there, actually you have come down this morning without any shirt-collar.”
“Have I? Have I, Mary?” said the Reverend Arthur, looking hastily in a glass. “How very foolish of me! I was anxious to get down, I suppose.”
“What we are to do for dinner I don’t know!” exclaimed Miss Mary. “The butcher won’t kill till the day after to-morrow.”
“Chickens,” suggested her brother.
“You can’t feed men always on chickens, Arthur.”
“No, no, my dear; but Henry Bolter has been a great deal in the East; and you might do a deal with chickens.”
“Oh, I know, Arthur,” said the little lady, pettishly. “Roast and boiled.”
“And curried! Bolter is sure to like curry.”