“For shame, dear,” cried Mrs Rumsey, “what will Mr Trethick think?”
“Think, ma’am,” cried Geoffrey, “that he ought to be proud of his children. I never saw any better-behaved at table.”
“He is proud of them, I must say,” said Mrs Rumsey, who was beginning to forgive her visitor for coming to breakfast; “and if he had justice done to him people would own how clever he is.”
“Clever at throwing a fly, Trethick, that’s all.”
“Well, I shall have to tumble down a shaft, or get blown up, or catch a fever, or something, to try him some day, Mrs Rumsey.”
“Ah, a few more patients would be a godsend,” said the doctor.
“My papa cut a man’s leg right off once,” said Bobby, sententiously.
“Then your papa must be a clever man,” said Geoffrey, looking amusedly at the stolid little face.
“Bobby, you must not say such things,” cried Mrs Rumsey. “Little boys should be seen and not heard. Prissy, my dear, you are swinging your legs about again.”
“And he’s got a wooden leg now—like an armchair,” whispered Bobby, very softly, as soon as he saw his mother’s attention taken up.