Mrs. Hurst twinkled.
“I’m not sure that that would be correct behaviour,” she said. “Is it done?—the farm-workers intruding on the guest—?”
“Don’t be horrid!” pleaded the guest. “I am an invalid, and I need special treatment. Robin, dear, do bring your Mother’s tea and your own, and let us have a party. Cheerful companionship is what my ankle needs.”
“But—Madam’s luncheon?” laughed Mrs. Hurst, sitting down, obediently.
“Oh—lunch!” said the afflicted guest, scornfully. “Madam can eat a boiled egg. She consumes nourishment in your house at such frequent intervals that when her ankle is better she’ll only be able to waddle! You bring out to me trays loaded with food, and I strongly suspect you both of perching on the kitchen-table and dining on bread-and-butter.”
Mrs. Hurst shook her head.
“I might,” she admitted, “if it were not that I have Robin—just as Robin certainly would, but for the fact that she has me.”
“Not me!” said Robin, firmly. “I want full rations.”
“She certainly needs them, for she works very hard,” said her mother. “So I make a point of having meals properly served: it is good for us both, for it’s easy for women living alone to get into slack ways. We don’t perch on the kitchen-table; we eat very respectably, on the veranda.”
“But how nice! May I come there, too, when my silly ankle is better? I won’t ask you when Edward and Barry happen to be at home, for I know you would hate to have the whole party there—”