The Poor Boy was terribly troubled about his old friend. She had been so generous, so debonair, such a gay and charming spender.
"Oh!" he cried. "Can't I do anything?"
"Once before," said old Martha, "ye tried for to give her a lift, and you know well what came of it."
His eyes flashed.
"She shall stay at Harrow Hall," he said. "Every day I shall take her walking, and every day she shall turn her ankle, and I shall carry her back to her house. And when I find out how poor she is I shall kill an old uncle of hers in the southwest—she never heard of him—his name is Eliphalet Pomfret Grey, and he shall leave her a pot of money.—Did she send me any message, Martha?"
"She did not."
He was sorry—inside.
Miss Joy thought that the Poor Boy was a very long time at his luncheon. She was feeling rather blue and lonely. She wanted to talk to Martha, and here it was half past two o'clock, and Martha still in the dining-room with the Poor Boy.
She could hear the sound of their voices but not the words. She could have heard the words by listening at the pantry door. But it never entered her head to do so. She was working at a marble-topped table trying to compose a cake according to a very complicated inspiration in a cookbook that weighed seven pounds. Miss Joy had a vague idea that her cake, not a large cake, was going to weigh more. It was going to be very dark and rich, something like a wedding-cake.
Martha came at last from the dining-room, and examined the mixture which Miss Joy had made.