Agatha’s obvious exasperation was excusable. Her uncle’s telegram summoning her to nurse Mary Farleigh happened to arrive at a moment when she was expecting to spend a well-earned leave with the Extons. Also, it seemed to her that John accepted her disappointment too coolly. Surely he must know that she was “fed up” with work. The equanimity of the trained soldier, his acquiescence in misfortune, his good-temper under it, would have provoked admiration from Aggie at any other time. Let us make due allowance for her. John attempted to soothe her, not very successfully. And then Martha Giles poked in her comical old head explaining:
“Well, I never! . . . Johnny Exton—a gentleman officer!”
John took her hand heartily.
“Only a sergeant, Mrs. Giles.”
“With three wound-stripes,” added Agatha proudly. Her tone became aggrieved again, as she added: “Uncle Timothy wouldn’t let me in, Martha.”
“Let ’un bide wi’ the pore sick soul. She be tarr’ble low, dazed an’ mazed as never was; but Mary be tough, and the dear Lard well knows that she bain’t to be spared, no more than I be.”
“Is there proper food in the house?” asked Agatha.
“Yes; my cow-heel broth. Hark! Timothy be comin’ down.”
A heavy step was heard on a creaking stair. Martha whispered hurriedly:
“Now, don’t ’ee be miffed, if he acts flustratious, pore dear man!”