“Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Mary, you could not hate anyone; and as to Helen Perowne’s foolish coquetry, it will all settle down into the love of some stout brave fellow.”
“Such as that of Lieutenant Chumbley.”
“Perhaps so.”
“Well I hope so, I’m sure. One ought to have a big strong man to keep all the others away, for if ever there was a heartless coquette it is she; and the sooner we can place her in her father’s hands the happier I shall be.”
“Would you mind whisking a fly off now and then with your handkerchief, Mary,” said the little doctor, drowsily, as he settled himself for his nap.
“I know there’ll be some mischief come out of it all,” said the little lady, as she drove a couple of flies from her husband’s nose.
“Only—few days—old Perowne—sure to meet us, and—”
The handkerchief was kept busily whisking about, for the flies were tiresome, and the doctor was fast asleep, only turning restlessly now and then, when in her eagerness to watch Helen Perowne and Lieutenant Chumbley—the young officer coming out to join the regiment into which he had exchanged with the hope of getting variety and sport—Mrs Doctor forgot to act as guardian against the flies.