“Tired with his journey, no doubt,” said Mrs Ingleton.
As no one disputed this theory, and Jill’s exchange of glances with her champion passed unheeded, there seemed every prospect of the meal passing off peaceably. But Tom, as usual, contrived to improve the occasion in the wrong direction.
“You’ll like him, Armstrong, when you see him. He’s no end of a chap—all larks. He’ll make you roar with his rummy stories.”
“I have met him already,” said the tutor shortly.
“Then he is up. Jill, my child,” said the captain, “go and knock at Mr Ratman’s door, and tell him breakfast is ready.”
“I won’t go near him,” said Jill, flushing up. “He’s a horrid, hateful man. Isn’t he, Mr Armstrong?”
Mr Armstrong, thus appealed to, looked a little uncomfortable, and nodded.
“Yes,” blurted the girl; “and if it hadn’t been for Mr Armstrong, father, he might have hurt me very much.”
“Explain yourself,” said the fond father, becoming interested.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” said Jill.