“They are not the chanterelles then, uncle?”
“Oh, yes, my boy, they are. I was afraid that Martha had had an accident with the fungi, and had prepared a substitute from my old shooting boots, but I can’t see either eyelet or nail. Can you?”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah to her nephew; “do, pray, ring, and have them taken away. You really should not bring in such things to be cooked.”
“No, no: stop a moment,” said the doctor, as Macey grinned with delight; “let’s see first whether there is anything eatable.”
“It’s all like bits of shrivelled crackling,” said Vane, “only harder.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “much. I’m afraid Martha did not like her job, and she has cooked these too much. No,” he added, after tasting, “this is certainly not a success. Now for the tart—that is, if our young friend Macey has quite finished his portion.”
“I haven’t begun, sir,” said the visitor.
“Then we will wait.”
“No, no, please sir, don’t. I feel as if I couldn’t eat a bit.”
“And I as if they were not meant to eat,” said the doctor, smiling. “Never mind, Vane; we’ll get aunt to cook the rest, or else you and I will experimentalise over a spirit lamp in the workshop, eh?”