“Yes, of course,” said Geoffrey, “most clergymen do.”
“To be sure,” assented the amiable little woman. “Have you seen the Rumseys yet?”
“I’ve met the doctor,” replied Geoffrey.
“A very clever man,” said Mrs Mullion, “and his wife means well, but she drills the children so. She’s very proud, and thinks they have come down; but, as I say to my Madge, if she would not drill those poor children quite so much, and use a pocket-handkerchief to their noses, it would be so much better. Yes, Madge, I’m coming directly.”
Geoffrey wished she would go, for he wanted to write a letter; but the little lady kept prattling on.
“I want to see you get a good colour, Mr Trethick. You look Londony, you know. You must let me cook you a chop or a steak for breakfast—underdone, you know. Dr Rumsey says there’s nothing like it. So much better for you than fish; and I will say that of our butcher, he does have good meat. His only fault is that, as Mr Paul says, he seems to have a knife that will cut two pounds when you want one.”
“A common failing with butchers, I believe,” laughed Geoffrey.
“Yes,” said the little woman, innocently. “We get our milk there, and—to be sure! Now, look here, Mr Trethick, before you go out for those early morning walks of yours—”
“Mamma!”
“Yes, Madge, I’m coming! Bless the child! how impatient she is when I’m here. But, as I was going to say, you must let me beat you up a new-laid egg in a glass of fresh milk. Lornocks have got a new cow, an Alderney, with such a beautiful bust, and I never saw richer milk in my life.”