“If he comes, he comes,” said Northcote, with a clever assumption of carelessness, “and if he don’t he stops away. Do you understand, Miss Inquisitive? I generally have an extra knife and fork, you know, in case a friend should happen to drop in.”
“He will have a wretched breakfast this morning if he comes,” said the girl, taking off her gloves gaily, and fishing out the fork and the bacon from among the ashes. “I must say, Henry, whoever your friends may be, they cannot be very nice about their cookery.”
“Consecrated by the cook, don’t you see, Miss Impertinence. That bacon is toasted by mine own fair hands.”
“Really, my boy,” said his mother, “you have grown most Bohemian in your ways.”
She took off a pair of shabby and much-mended gloves with that air of resolution she imparted to her lightest action, and insisted on being allowed to make the tea. She measured two spoonfuls of tea from the caddy with great care.
“I allow myself three spoonfuls now I live in London,” said her son.
“Three is extravagance, Henry, three is not necessary,” said his mother quietly. “One for each person and one for the pot is correct.”
“Suppose a friend turns up?”
“More can be made. I fear you have formed very bad habits in London.”
“We have a surprise for you, Henry,” said the girl gaily.