“You needn’t make mincemeat of your English on that account!” piped the crippled sister tartly. “It is no little matter to order just the right things for such a host. Mamma, you must have a cup of tea, I suppose?”
The young lady interposed, writing while she talked:
“Of course! And all of us will be the better for some good, hot soup. This is luncheon, not dinner, recollect. We only need something to stay our appetites until six o’clock,” she added, putting the paper in the waiter’s hand.
She did not look like one who did things for effect, yet there was meaning in her manner of saying it. If she was obliged to cut her coat according to her cloth, she would just now make the scantiness of the pattern seem a matter of choice and carry out the seaming gallantly.
“How much further have we to go?” queried eight-year-old, somewhat ruefully.
Six o’clock was to her apprehension a long time ahead.
“We are within half an hour of home. We might have been there by now, but we thought it better to wait over a train to rest and get rid of the dust we brought off the cars.”
“And to let him get shaved and barbered and prinked up generally!” shrilled the cripple malevolently.
“Hester!” The mother’s voice was heard for the first time.
“Well, mamma?”