It was Sunday morning, a day or two after Mr. George and Rollo arrived in London. Mr. George had been sitting at a small table at one of the windows, writing a letter, and Rollo had been sitting at the other window, amusing himself, sometimes by looking at the pictures in a book, and at others by watching the little scenes and incidents which were continually occurring at the doors of the houses on the opposite side of the court below.
In obedience to his uncle's request, Rollo pulled one of the bellropes which hung by the side of the fire. A minute or two afterwards Margaret's gentle tap was heard at the door.
"Come in," said Mr. George.
Margaret opened the door and came in.
"Well, Margaret," said Mr. George, "what
can you let us have for breakfast this morning?"
"You can have whatever you like," said Margaret.
The English waiters and servant girls always say you can have whatever you like; but it does not always prove in the end that the promise can be realized.
"Can you let us have a fried sole?" asked Mr. George.
"Why, no, sir," said Margaret, "not Sunday morning. You see, sir, they don't bring round the soles Sunday morning."