Dr Rumsey screwed up his face a little at this, and laughed.
“Dr Rumsey is very clever,” said Mrs Rumsey, who—in her efforts to supply wants, cast an eye at the cradle, and see that the children behaved well before company—got into such a tangle that she besugared some cups twice, and some not at all. “I always say to him that he is throwing himself away down here.”
“You do, my dear, always,” said the doctor uneasily.
“There is so little to do,” continued Mrs Rumsey, who got nothing to eat herself. “Priscilla, take your spoon in your right hand.”
“Please, ma, my coffee’s got no sugar,” observed Bobby.
“There is no sugar in my coffee,” said mamma correctively, as she gave her nose a twitch which sent it half an inch on one side. “Tom, sit up, sir. Yes, Mr Trethick, if my husband had his dues as a medical man, he would be in Harley Street, or in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square.”
“As a specialist, eh?” said Geoffrey.
“Yes, Mr Trethick. Esther, my dear, why will you fill your mouth so full?”
“Still, life down here is very jolly, Mrs Rumsey,” said Geoffrey, handing bread and butter to two or three hungry souls. “See how the little rascals eat.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “that’s just what they do do.”