“Teethache, sir,” said the delighted Maggie, dropping a courtesy. “They’re nicely, thank you, sir.”
“Maggie, go and dust the parlour; I’ll see to the bacon,” said Dolly. Maggie retired quite crestfallen and sad.
“Why did you send the child off? She wasn’t doing any harm,” said Lucian.
“I’ll call her back and go myself, if you want to talk to her.”
“I don’t, I don’t; you know I don’t. But why are you so cross?”
“Because I was late,” said Dolly, candidly, and laughed, and recovered her temper. “Why weren’t you at the Mertons’ last night? Mrs. Merton said she asked you.”
“I was looking after old Farquhar; he’s been seedy.” Dolly’s lip curled. “Fact, I assure you. He had a touch of fever the night before last, and raved about you like Old Boots.”
“I should have thought that as a literary man you might find a better simile. I met a friend of yours there—Mr. Meryon.”
“What? Gambling Meryon? You don’t say!” exclaimed Lucian. “I’ll look him up. I haven’t seen him since he won sixteen thousand off me at a sitting. Lordy! what a getting down-stairs that was!”
“So he told me.”