“That is not to be thought of,” interrupted his wife. “Why, you have not had a holiday for two years!” She smiled at him. “And there is Barry, too.”
“Yes, there’s Barry. I want him to be quite fit before he goes back. He’s keen on the fishing, too, and I must say I should like him to learn something besides city ways. It’s too bad that he’s over fifteen and doesn’t know one end of a rod or a gun from the other. If Mrs. Hurst would have us here, there would be no twelve-mile drive night and morning along that track you dislike so much—”
“That would decide it, if there were no other advantages!” spoke Mrs. Lane, briskly. “I’ll ask Mrs. Hurst, dear: after all, she can hardly be offended. I’ll put it very nicely.”
“I have always remarked that when you are truly tactful you are hard to refuse,” said the doctor, gravely. “So I’ll hope for the best. I do hope you won’t be horribly bored, dear; it’s all very rough on you. You have plenty of books to go on with, haven’t you? Of course I can order anything you like from Town. We can get the mail every day.”
“Oh, I shall manage famously,” she said. “Don’t think of worrying about me. I shall write all the letters I should have written ever so long ago, and read all the books. And I daresay Mrs. Hurst and that nice red Robin will come and talk to me.”
“We seem to be taking it for granted that Mrs. Hurst will consent,” her husband remarked. “It will be rather a blow if she won’t have us.”
But Mrs. Hurst, handled tactfully, proved responsive. At first she felt a quick flush of pride and of outraged hospitality; to make money out of these stranded people who were her guests, seemed an impossible thing. Then common sense came to her aid. The Lanes, also, had their pride; clearly, it was unthinkable that they should remain without making any payment. And their wish to remain was very evident: Mrs. Hurst liked to see it.
Then, too, came in her own urgent need of money. Despite her promise to Robin not to worry, the thought of their tiny bank balance was never out of her mind: it was so flimsy a barrier between them and disaster, should bad times come. Dr. Lane’s offer was a generous one—more, she knew, than he would have paid the hotel in Baroin. She protested against it.
“It is too much for simple farm-house accommodation,” she told him, when he came to join in the discussion. At which he laughed.
“If you saw our stuffy rooms in that hotel—!” he said. “This is luxury; your delightful, airy rooms, and the clean freshness everywhere. It would be ten times the holiday for us. Think, too, of all I shall save in petrol, apart from the joys of the mantelshelf road which your daughter says I must not malign. And my wife cannot help giving you some extra trouble, until her ankle is better.”