There had been a soft tap at the door, and Mrs Champernowne appeared.
“I beg pardon, sir, but what would you like for breakfast in the morning?”
“Breakfast, Mrs Champernowne? Nothing.”
“Oh, I say, uncle!” said Rodd sharply. “We seem to have eaten enough this evening to last us for twenty-four hours.”
“Oh no, sir,” said the landlady. “Excuse me, but our moorland air will make you think very differently to-morrow morning.”
“Humph!” grunted Uncle Paul.
“You see, sir, I did think that you’d bring home enough trout this evening to do for your breakfast too, and I am afraid there’s nothing but ham and eggs. Would you mind them?”
“I’ll tell you to-morrow morning, madam,” said Uncle Paul.
“Then if you wouldn’t mind, sir—I don’t want to hurry you and the young gentleman—but it’s my time, and if you will excuse me I’ll say good-night.”
“Good-night, Mrs Champernowne; good-night, and pleasant rest to you,” said Uncle Paul heartily, “and— Yes? You were going to say something?”