There was a baker in the village—I think I have forgotten to say that there was a very tiny village called Eastercove, close to our gates—who was famed for his muffins.
'Humph,' I said. 'I don't very much care about them. They are such a bother with toasting and buttering. I think bread and butter—thin and rolled—is quite as good, and some nice cakes and a big one of that kind of gingerbread that you hardly taste the ginger in, and that's like toffee at the top.'
I was beginning to feel hungry, for we had not eaten much luncheon, which was our early dinner, and I think that made me talk rather greedily.
'You are a regular epicure about cakes,' said Dods.
I did not like his calling me that, and I felt my face get red, and I was just going to answer him crossly when I remembered about our great trouble, and thought immediately to myself how silly it would be to squabble about tiny things in a babyish way now. So I answered quietly—
'Well, you see, it is only polite to think of what other people like, if you invite them to tea, and I know papa likes that kind of gingerbread. He ate such a big piece one day that mamma called him a greedy boy.'
Geordie did not say anything, but I always know when he is sorry for teasing me, and I could see that he was just now.
Then we locked up and set off home again. As we came out of the pine woods and in sight of the drive we saw the pony carriage, and we ran on, so as to be at the front door when papa and mamma got there.
They smiled at us very kindly, and papa said in what he meant to be a cheery voice—
'Well, young people, what have you been about? Run in, Ida, and hurry up tea. Mamma is tired.'