“No,” said Geoffrey. “I only hope that; but I’ll warrant six or seven, perhaps fourteen.”
“It would about ruin us,” said the doctor, “if it was like most mines—a failure.”
“My dear, I’m ashamed of you,” cried Mrs Rumsey. “You always would fight against every chance of advancement. It is my money, and I say it shall be invested. There?”
The way in which Mrs Rumsey’s nose twitched at this juncture was something surprising, and made Geoffrey quite uncomfortable.
“Well,” he said, rising, “I must go. Mrs Rumsey, thank you for a charming breakfast. Rumsey, you think over that, and, look here, if you do think of it seriously, come up to me—soon.”
“He shall, Mr Trethick,” said the lady, decidedly.
“I will—think over it,” said the doctor. “But, look here, if I do play and lose the rubber, don’t you come to me when you are ill, or I’ll give you such a dosing.”
“My papa keeps it in a bottle,” said Bobby, in a whisper.
“Does he? Well, we’ll hope the stopper is never removed on my behalf,” said Geoffrey. “But, look here,” he cried, as he remembered something. “I’ve got two paper bags in my pocket;” and he dragged out the effects of his two last visits to Mrs Prawle, leaving the children in a high state of delight, and Mrs Rumsey telling her husband that if he had had the energy of Geoffrey Trethick he would be keeping his brougham, and she sitting in silk and satin, instead of having to wash up the breakfast things, while their one servant made the beds.