So it went on—grumble, grumble, grumble, grum— And that Rachel actually put her arm round his neck and kissed his cross red face.
“It is not the tea that is bad, dear, it is your poor old foot. Cheer up! It will be better to-morrow. This new medicine is said to work wonders.”
Then he exploded for another half hour about doctors and medicines, abusing them both as hard as he could, and at the end pointed to my face, which, to judge from my feelings, must have been chalky green, and wanted to know if they called themselves nurses, and if they wished to kill me outright, for if they did they had better say so at once, and let him know what was in store. He had borne enough in the last twenty-five years, goodness knew!
I was carried back to bed and cried surreptitiously beneath the clothes while Rachel tidied up.
“Dear father,” she said fondly; “he is a martyr to gout. It is so sad for him to have an illness which depresses his spirits and spoils his enjoyment. There are so few pleasures left to him in life now, but he bears it wonderfully well.”
I peeped at her over the sheet, but her face was quite grave and serious. She meant it, every word!
Chapter Eleven.
August 17th.