“Well, sir, I—”
“Of course he will, uncle. Have a taste, Aleck. Give him some, aunt.”
Aunt Hannah placed a portion upon their visitor’s plate, and Macey was wonderfully polite—waiting for other people to be served before he began.
“Oh, I say, aunt, take some too,” cried Vane.
“Do you wish it, my dear? Well, I will;” and Aunt Hannah helped herself, as the doctor began to turn his portion over; and Macey thought of poisoning, doctors, and narrow escapes, as he trifled with the contents of his plate.
“Humph!” said the doctor breaking a painful silence. “I’m afraid, Vane, that cook has made a mistake.”
“Mistake, sir?” cried Macey, eagerly; “then you think they are not wholesome?”
“Decidedly not,” said the doctor. “I suppose these are your chanterelles, Vane.”
“Don’t look like ’em, uncle.”
“No, my boy, they do not. I can’t find any though,” said the doctor, as he turned over his portion with his fork. “No: I was wrong.”