“Ah, Tregenna!” he said; “must not forget him. Prissy fetch me the day-book. I’ll enter that while I remember it.”
“No, papa,” said Mrs Rumsey in an ill-used tone, as she frowned the little girl back in her place, “leave that till Mr Trethick has gone. If you will expose our poverty by bringing visitors to breakfast, don’t forget all the past, and let Mr Trethick go away thinking we have quite degenerated into Cornish fishermen and miners.”
“Oh, Trethick won’t think that,” said the doctor heartily.
“Indeed I should not,” said Geoffrey merrily. “How about the trout, doctor?”
“To be sure,” cried the doctor, “we must have them.”
“Don’t, pray, say you have brought home any nasty trout to be cooked for breakfast, my dear,” cried Mrs Rumsey imploringly. “I really could not get them cooked.”
“Oh, never mind, my dear,” said the doctor, rubbing his ear in rather a vexed way. “You won’t mind, Trethick; you shall take them home with you.”
“Mind? Not I,” said Geoffrey.
“Of course if Mr Trethick particularly wishes trout for breakfast, I’ll go and broil a brace myself,” said Mrs Rumsey in an ill-used whine.
“I protest against any such proceeding,” cried Geoffrey, who had been brought home by the doctor on purpose to partake of their spoil. “In fact, I rather dislike fish for breakfast,” he added mendaciously. “There, that’s capital. I’ll sit here between these two young rosy-cheeked rogues,” he cried, “and we’ll have a race and see who’ll eat most slices of bread and butter.”