Mrs Rumsey stood with the coffee-pot in one hand, looking at him aghast.
“And we’ll cut for ourselves,” said Geoffrey, smiling.
Mrs Rumsey was thawed, especially as papa fetched the loaf and butter, and placed them on the table.
“There, Trethick, make yourself at home,” he said; “we can’t afford ceremony here.”
“Glad of it,” said Geoffrey, making one of his little neighbours laugh. “Why, Mrs Rumsey, you ought to be proud of your children. What a jolly, healthy little lot they are.”
“Little?” cried Rumsey, pausing with his cup half-way to his lips.
“I mean in size, not number. Miss Prissy, if you look at me so hard with those blue eyes I shall think you are counting how many bites I take.”
“Oh, I’m very proud of them,” said Mrs Rumsey in a tone of voice that sounded like a preface to a flood of tears, “but it is a large family to care for and educate.”
“Yes, it is,” replied Geoffrey. “Mr Rumsey tells me that you educate them entirely yourself.”
“Yes, quite,” cried Mrs Rumsey, brightening a little. “Priscilla, say your bones.”