Brother and sister talked things over, intuitively meeting half-way,
understanding each other with a word, as only blood relations can.
Jinny, the chief person concerned, sat meekly by, or chimed in merely to
echo her husband's views.
"By the way, I ran into Richard on Specimen Hill," said John as he
turned to leave the room. "And he asked me to let you know that he would
not be home to lunch."
"There. . . if that isn't always the way!" exclaimed Mary. "As sure as I
cook something he specially likes, he doesn't come in. Tilly sent me
over the loveliest little sucking-pig this morning. Richard would have
enjoyed it."
"You should be proud, my dear Mary, that his services are in such
demand."
"I am, John--no one could be prouder. But all the same I wish he could
manage to be a little more regular with his meals. It makes cooking so
difficult. To-morrow, because I shan't have a minute to spare, he'll be
home punctually, demanding something nice. But I warn you, to-morrow
you'll all have to picnic!"
However, when the day came, she was better than her word, and looked to
it that neither guests nor husband went short. Since a couple of tables
on trestles took up the dining-room, John and Mahony lunched together in
the surgery; while Jinny's meal was spread on a tray and sent to her in
the bedroom. Mary herself had time only to snatch a bite standing. From
early morning on, tied up in a voluminous apron, she was cooking in the
kitchen, very hot and floury and preoccupied, drawing grating shelves
out of the oven, greasing tins and patty-pans, dredging flour.
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