“What house?” cried the Squire.
“Our house, sir. Brown and Co.’s.”
The Squire put down his buttered roll—for Molly had graciously sent in hot rolls that morning—and stared at the speaker.
“What on earth are you talking of?” he cried. “You don’t mean to say you are thinking of going back?”
“Indeed I am—unfortunately. I must get up to London to-night.”
“Why, bless my heart,” cried the Squire, getting up and standing a bit, “you’ve not been here a week!”
“It is all the leave I could get, Mr. Todhetley: a week. I thought you understood that.”
“You can’t go away till you are cured,” roared the Squire. “Why didn’t you go back the day you came? Don’t talk nonsense, Marks.”
“Indeed I should like to stay longer,” he earnestly said. “I wish I could. Don’t you see, Mr. Todhetley, that it does not lie with me?”
“Do you dare to look me in the face, Marks, and tell me this one week’s rest has cured you? What on earth!—are you turning silly?”