“There was no chance in London, Trethick,” said the doctor. “I’d no capital, except children, and the rents were ruinous. Besides, you have to keep up appearances to such an extent.”
“But the people there were not barbarians, my dear,” sighed Mrs Rumsey.
“Well, my dear, and they are not here. We live, and manage to pay our way—nearly; and when they come to know you, the people are very sociable. We do have capital whist parties.”
“But you know I detest whist, dear,” sighed Mrs Rumsey. “Let me send you another cup of coffee, Mr Trethick.”
“Thanks,” said Geoffrey. “The fact is, I suppose,” he continued to his host, “there are not enough inhabitants to give you a good practice.”
“That’s it, so I fill up with catching trout, and making a few shillings at whist.”
“Yes, dear, you always would play whist,” sighed Mrs Rumsey; and, to Geoffrey’s horror, her nose this time went right up, as if to visit her forehead.
“Capital game too,” said the doctor. “That and fishing often keep me from having the blues.”
“Why don’t you try and invest in some good mining speculation?” said Geoffrey.
“First, because I’ve got very little to invest; secondly, because where there is a good spec, there’s no chance of getting on.”