And the Doctor’s mouth twitched a little till he fixed it into a stiff smile.
The children tried hard to extract some more ends out of him on the way to the Rectory; but he declined to pursue the history of the Trout family through indefinite generations. It was decided on all hands, however, that Tommy Trout was evidently one and the same with Tommy Trout who pulled the cat out of the well, because “it was just a sort of thing for a Brownie to do, you know!” and that Johnnie Green (who, of course, was not Johnnie Trout,) was some unworthy village acquaintance, and “a thorough Boggart.”
“Doctor!” said Tiny, as they stood by the garden-gate, “how long do you think gentlemen’s pocket-handkerchiefs take to wear out?”
“That, my dear Madam,” said the Doctor, “must depend, like other terrestrial matters, upon circumstances; whether the gentleman bought fine cambric, or coarse cotton with pink portraits of the reigning Sovereign, to commence with; whether he catches many colds, has his pocket picked, takes snuff, or allows his washerwoman to use washing powders. But why do you want to know?”
“I shan’t tell you that,” said Tiny, who was spoilt by the Doctor, and consequently tyrannized in proportion; “but I will tell you what I mean to do. I mean to tell Mother that when Father wants any more pocket handkerchiefs hemmed, she had better put them by the bath in the nursery, and perhaps some Brownie will come and do them.”
“Kiss my fluffy face!” said the Doctor in sepulchral tones.
“The owl is too high up,” said Tiny, tossing her head.
The Doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set her down again.
“You’re not fluffy at all,” said she in a tone of the utmost contempt; “you’re tickly and bristly. Puss is more fluffy, and Father is scrubby and scratchy, because he shaves.”
“And which of the three styles do you prefer?” said the Doctor.