“Uncle Paul down?” he said.
“Yes, Mr Trethick, I heard him come down just before you, and—”
“The old rascal’s got something good for breakfast,” cried Geoffrey, with a pronounced sniff. “What is it?”
“Curried lobster, Mr Trethick,” said Madge, pouting her pretty red—perhaps already too pouting—lips at the lodger’s extremely mundane views.
“I love turned lobster,” said Geoffrey, “especially such lobsters as you get down here. I shall go and attack him for a portion.”
“Don’t, please, Mr Trethick,” said Madge, earnestly. “There is a delicious sole for you. It came from the trawler this morning, and—and I cooked it myself.”
“Egged and crumbed; Miss Mullion?”
“Yes,” she said, eagerly.
“Humph! Well, I think I’ll compound for the fresh sole, and let Uncle Paul have his lobster in peace.”
“You shall have it directly, Mr Trethick,” cried Madge, looking brightly in the young man’s face. “I—I brought you some forget-me-nots this morning.”