“I hate the place,” growled Rolph rustling his paper; and Mrs Rolph looked pleased, but she said nothing for some time. Then, very gently,—
“Rob, dearest, you are going to stay now you are here?”
“No; I’m going to Hounslow to-morrow.”
“Not so soon as that, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, pleadingly, as she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Why not? What’s the good of staying here?”
“To please your mother, dearest, and—Madge, who is in a terribly weak state I had great difficulty in getting her back here.”
Rolph moved angrily, and crumpled up the paper, but Mrs Rolph bent down and kissed him.
“There, all right,” he said, “only don’t bother me about it so. I can’t forget that other cursed muddle, if you can.”
“No, my dear, of course not, but you should try to. And, Rob, dear, be a little more thoughtful about dearest Madge. She has, I know, suffered cruelly in the past, and does so now at times when you seem neglectful—no, no, don’t start, dear; I know you are not, but girls are exacting, and do love to spoil men by trying to keep them at their feet.”
“Like spaniels or pugs,” growled Rolph, the latter being the more appropriate.