“Jonah, this is Mr Jeffreys; I’ve taken him on in Fison’s place. My son, Mr Jeffreys.”
Jonah made a face at his mother, as much as to say, “I don’t admire your choice,” and then, with a half-nod at Jeffreys, said,—
“Ah, how are you?”
“Jonah and I always dine at twelve, Mr Jeffreys,” said Mrs Trimble, over whom the prospect of the afternoon’s nap was beginning to cast a balmy sense of ease. “You two young men will be good friends, I hope, and look well after the boys.”
“More than you do,” said the undutiful Jonah; “they’ve been doing just as they please the last month.”
“It’s a pity, Jonah, you never found fault with that before.”
“What’s the use of finding fault? No end to it when you once begin.”
“Well,” observed the easy-going matron, “you two will have to see I don’t have occasion to find fault with you.”
Jonah laughed, and asked Jeffreys to cut him a slice of bread.
Presently Mrs Trimble quitted the festive board, and the two ushers were left together.