"Money, dear—money and a bit of paper I carry in this note case that is earnestly coveted by quite a number of people it doesn't belong to. When I asked for a large and a small, Jane, I was endeavouring to convey the idea that I was thirsty."
But Jane was reluctant to go and only consented to do so on a promise that no secrets should be revealed in her absence.
"Be a darling, mother dear, and fill me a pipe."
It was characteristic of Anthony Barraclough that the entire household revolved round him from the instant of appearance.
"Then there is something wrong with your hand," said the old lady filling the pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth, while Flora risked a month's notice by rushing forward with a lighted match. "I shall tie it up while you have your smoke."
Anthony's protests were unavailing when the ministering angel mood descended upon his mother. At such a time she was inexorable. She called upon Flora to fill the slop basin with warm water and provide scissors (always so elusive when needed) and naturally Flora, who was entirely absorbed in the adventurous side of the proceedings, could only find the rose cutters which were entirely useless.
"It's a bullet wound," Mrs. Barraclough declared. "You can't deceive me—it's a bullet wound."
"Well, p'raps it is, mother, but since it was never intended for my hand we needn't bother about it."
"You must have it bandaged and go to bed straight away."
"Bed!" He threw back his head and laughed. "It's likely."