"No food again this morning? I hope you're not up to them wastin' tricks again? Wastin' your life, I call it," with a disgusted sniff.
Chris looked up with a smile.
"Good-morning, Summers," he said. "I hope I see you well? No, I am not wasting just at present, though there's just a pound or two to come off before Kempton next week. We shall have another glorious winner (Chris characterised all winners as glorious) then. Which is it to be this time, a new bonnet or a dress-length?"
"Gloves this time, Master Chris, and thank you," Mrs. Summers replied, "though there ain't much chance of showing off any finery in this place, I'm sure."
"How often has the butcher called this week, Summers?" Chris asked, with a twinkle in his eye.
Mrs. Summers tossed her head. The butcher was rather a sore point with her, his name having been coupled with hers by "those impudent bits of boys," as she designated the stable lads.
"If I hear one of them brats discussing me and my affairs, I'll box his ears for him soundly," she threatened, "so there!"
"Quite right, Summers, don't you stand it," Chris agreed. "By the way, I'm going up to town to-day, so don't bother about any dinner for me."
He walked towards the door, then paused on the threshold to fire a parting shot. He loved "chipping" people, as he called it, but he would have cut off his right hand rather than wilfully hurt anyone's feelings.
"If the butcher does call to-day by any chance, Summers, there are no orders, you know," he said with a grave face, then raced off into his study before the enraged but complacent housekeeper could reply.