'I shouldn't trouble about it if I were you, Miss Fouracres,' said Mr.
Ruddiman in a tone of friendly encouragement. 'He'll soon be back, he'll
soon be back, and you may depend upon it there'll be no harm done.'
'I hope so, sir, but I've an uneasy sort of feeling; I have indeed.'
'Don't you worry, Miss Fouracres. When the Prince has gone away he'll be
better.'
Miss Fouracres stood for a moment with eyes cast down, then, looking
gravely at Mr. Ruddiman, said in a sorrowful voice--
'He calls the Pig and Whistle a pothouse.'
'Ah, that was wrong of him!' protested the other, no less earnestly. 'A
pothouse, indeed! Why, it's one of the nicest little inns you could find
anywhere. I'm getting fond of the Pig and Whistle. A pothouse, indeed! No,
I call that shameful.'
The listener's eyes shone with gratification.
'Of course we've got to remember,' she said more softly, 'that father has
known very different things.'
'I don't care what he has known!' cried Mr. Ruddiman. 'I hope I may never
have a worse home than the Pig and Whistle. And I only wish I could live
here all the rest of my life, instead of going back to that beastly
school!'
'Don't you like the school, Mr.
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