“And if here isn’t Mrs Dunn crying with vexation, because she has no occasion to make gruel and mix mustard plaisters for the poor boy,” cried Mr Burne banteringly.
“No, no, no, sir,” said the old woman sobbing; “it is out of the thankfulness of my poor old heart at seeing my dear boy once more well and strong.”
The doctor took out his notebook, and made a memorandum as Lawrence flung his arms round the tender-hearted old woman’s neck; the professor walked to the window; and Mr Burne whisked out the yellow handkerchief he had worn round his fez, and over which he had made his only joke, that he was so yellow and red, he looked like a fezzan, and blew his nose till the room echoed. After which he was obliged to calm himself with a pinch of snuff.
“Well, Lawrence,” said the professor, after they had all dined together. “You remember what you said at Ansina?”
“Yes.”
“What do you say now? Would you go through all those wearinesses and risks again if I asked you?”
“Yes, sir, at any time, if Yussuf is to be our guide.”
“And so say I,” cried Mr Burne, “if you would have such a cantankerous old man.”
“Ah, well,” said the professor. “I am not half satisfied. We shall see.”
And so it was left.