"I hope they gave you a cup of tea?" he said.
And again she hesitated, debating a point with herself: if the doctor had a decent sort of servant, of course, she, Ellen Bunting, would have been offered a cup of tea, especially if she explained she’d known him a long time.
She compromised. "I was offered some," she said, in a weak, tired voice. "But there, Bunting, I didn’t feel as if I wanted it. I’d be very grateful for a cup now—if you’d just make it for me over the ring."
"’Course I will," he said eagerly. "You just come in and sit down, my dear. Don’t trouble to take your things off now—wait till you’ve had tea."
And she obeyed him. "Where’s Daisy?" she asked suddenly. "I thought the girl would be back by the time I got home."
"She ain’t coming home to-day"—there was an odd, sly, smiling look on Bunting’s face.
"Did she send a telegram?" asked Mrs. Bunting.
"No. Young Chandler’s just come in and told me. He’s been over there and,—would you believe it, Ellen?—he’s managed to make friends with Margaret. Wonderful what love will do, ain’t it? He went over there just to help Daisy carry her bag back, you know, and then Margaret told him that her lady had sent her some money to go to the play, and she actually asked Joe to go with them this evening—she and Daisy—to the pantomime. Did you ever hear o’ such a thing?"
"Very nice for them, I’m sure," said Mrs. Bunting absently. But she was pleased—pleased to have her mind taken off herself. "Then when is that girl coming home?" she asked patiently.
