Mrs. Bolland’s hearty greeting was reassuring.
“Eh, my lady, but ye do look poorly, te be sure. I’ve bin worritin’ te think ye’ve mebbe bin upset by all this racket i’ t’ place, when ye kem here for rest an’ quiet.”
Mrs. Saumarez smiled.
“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Bolland,” she said. “I cannot blame Elmsdale, except, perhaps, that your wonderful air braced up my appetite too greatly, and I had to pay the penalty for so many good things to eat.”
“Ay, I said so,” chimed in Mrs. Summersgill, in the accents of deep conviction. “Ower much grub an’ nowt te do is bad for man or beast.”
Mrs. Saumarez laughed frankly at that.
“In which category do you place me, Mrs. Summersgill?” she inquired. Meanwhile, her eyes wandered to where Martin stood. She was asking herself why the boy should gaze so fixedly at Angèle.
The stout party did not know what a category was. She thought it was some species of malady.
“Well, ma’am,” she cried, “if I was you, I’d try rabbit meat for a few days. Eat plenty o’ green stuff an’ shun t’ teapot. It’s slow p’ison.”
She stretched out a huge arm and poured out a cup of tea. There was a general laugh at this forgetfulness. Mrs. Summersgill waved aside criticism.