“He has indeed,” said Madge, sighing again.
“Ah, well, my dear,” said Mrs Rumsey, finishing the slice, and laying it in its place upon the pile, “I ought not to say any thing against it, if you are set upon such a wilful course, for John Tregenna is papa’s patient, and of course you would be; and what with measles, and chicken-pox, and scarlatina, your family would be a help.”
“Oh, Charlotte dear!” exclaimed Madge.
“Ah, you may say, ‘Oh, Charlotte dear!’ but it must come to that; and a good thing too, for I’m sure our income’s limited enough, and—Oh, here he is at last, and his boots wet through. There, now: if there ever was an unreasonable man, it’s my husband. He’s bringing that Mr Trethick in to breakfast.”
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried Madge, to her companion. “Let me go without his seeing me.”
“You can slip out at the back,” said Mrs Rumsey, “and he won’t see you.”
But Madge thought it would look so cowardly, and, after a glance at the glass, determined to face Geoffrey, who was half pushed into the room by the doctor.
“Ma, dear, here’s Mr Trethick. We’ve had a couple of hours up the stream.”
“And there’s nothing but bread and butter, papa,” said Mrs Rumsey, in an injured tone. “I didn’t know you were going to bring company.”
“Company? I am not company,” said Geoffrey, merrily. “I’m a patient in prospective, and the doctor prescribes bread and butter. I was brought up on that happy animal and vegetable combination. Ah, Miss Mullion, good-morning! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? I say, I want to have a good laugh at those two little Turks out in the front.”