“I suppose it’s in me,” he said.
Helen bit her lip, and turned away, while her father gave his head a fierce rub, as if he was extremely vexed.
“Shall you send me back, sir!” said Dexter at last; and his look was full of wistful appeal.
“Well, I shall think about it,” said the doctor.
“I don’t want to go,” said the boy thoughtfully. “You don’t want me to go, do you?” he continued, turning to Helen.
“Here, the lunch is getting cold,” said the doctor. “Come along.”
As he spoke he half-pushed Dexter before him, and pointed to a chair.
The boy hesitated, but a sharp command from the doctor made him scuffle into his place, after which the grace was said, and the dinner commenced for Dexter—the lunch for his patron and friend.
Roast fowl most delicately cooked, with a delicious sauce; in addition to that made with bread; and there was an ornamentation round the dish of tempting sausages.
The odour from the steaming dishes was enough to have attracted any coarsely-fed workhouse boy, just as a flower, brings a bee from afar.