“No. I wish it was. But—Well, that beats all! Well, I am—Very, my pet, let me swear once. I shall feel so much better then.”
“You shall not, papa. But what a shame!”
“Worse than that, my darling. It’s all a confounded planned insult, got up by my lord and that sneaking scoundrel of an agent,” he continued, as he watched a bill-sticker busy at work pasting placards on the new raw deal boards just nailed on the rough pine poles. “Selling off, etc. To be sold by auction,” read the Doctor, “Guy Bunting’s boots.”
“Oh! is this a land of liberty, where one is to be insulted like this, and not even allowed the British prerogative of a good honest—”
Veronica’s lips were pressed upon the speaker’s lips, as near as they could get for the crisp, grey, shaggy hair of an enormous moustache, and said,—
“You shall not say it, papa; and you are too proud and dignified to notice such contemptible treatment. Now come and have your breakfast. The cutlets are getting cold.”
“Then Teddington Weir him!” said the Doctor.
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Never mind. Hah! I am hungry. But look here, Pussy—more sugar, please—and milk. It’s all your fault.”
“It is not, papa,” said Veronica, colouring a little. “It was through your buying this cottage.”