“Miss Thorne has been indefatigable,” said the squire; “and, by-the-way, Miss Thorne, I think your mamma is somewhere here. I’ll go and find her.”
Hazel was growing cold, but this little gentlemanly attention made her smile again as she bowed her thanks, and George Canninge was just leaving the room, when a familiar voice was heard, and Mr William Forth Burge appeared with Mrs Thorne, handing her in very carefully, and talking loudly all the while, as he brought her into a place where he was sure there would be no draught, and then fetched her some tea and cake.
“Well, Mr Burge,” cried George Canninge, for he felt conscious that his mother was freezing the current of conversation, “what are we to call it, a success or a failure?”
Mr William Forth Burge opened his mouth and stared, but for a few moments no words came.
“I—thought it was a big success, Mr Canninge, sir,” he said at last. “I meant it to be, you know.”
“And so it is. It is the grandest and the jolliest school-treat I ever saw, and if the young dogs and doggesses are not—”
“Har—ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!”
“Why, what are you laughing at?”
“That’s a good one, sir. Young doggesses, sir,” roared Mr William Forth Burge; but only to become preternaturally solemn directly, as he saw that no one else even smiled.
“I was only going to say that if they don’t feel grateful for all this kindness, they—”