“That’ll save me!” remarked Porter Swan.
In marching down towards Railway Terrace he could not help thinking of his soldier days when there was never a dearth of housemaids, and never a one who did not, sooner or later, betray some defect which led to cessation of amiabilities. Here, again, was a case of a trim little woman who, if she but knew how to cook, might well be either highly commended or, perhaps, awarded the prize of second marriage. He had enjoyed his meal at the eating-house, and felt willing to look on the world with an indulgent air; nevertheless, he could not help seeing the drawback was serious.
“Hullo, my dear!” as the child opened the door. “How are we this time?”
“What do you say to a few chocolates?”
“Mr. Swan,” called a pleasant voice from the kitchen, “don’t you go spoiling her. She’s not been behaving nicely.”
“Hand ’em over!” ordered the youngster.
The mother came through the passage, slightly flushed by the fire or from confusion, reproved her daughter for want of manners, gave a welcome to Mr. Swan, and expressed a hope that he had a good appetite.
“Don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he replied anxiously. “If I don’t get better I shall have to see a chemist. I could no more touch food at the present moment than I could swim the Channel. I’m very sorry, but you must excuse me, reelly.”
“It’s a pity,” she said with distress. “You don’t mind sitting down and watching us eat, I hope.”