My hand was on the latch
when he stayed me.
"Isn't this the back-door again, sir?" he enquired.
It was the back-door; I had not noticed it.
"Hadn't we better go round to the front, sir, don't you think?" he
said.
"It doesn't matter--" I began.
But he had disappeared. So I followed him, and we entered by the
front. Robina was standing by the table, peeling potatoes.
"I have brought Mr. Bute back with me," I explained. "He is going to
stop the night."
Robina said: "If ever I go to live in a cottage again it will have
one door." She took her potatoes with her and went upstairs.
"I do hope she isn't put out," said young Bute.
"Don't worry yourself," I comforted him. "Of course she isn't put
out. Besides, I don't care if she is. She's got to get used to
being put out; it's part of the lesson of life."
I took him upstairs, meaning to show him his bedroom and take my own
things out of it. The doors of the two bedrooms were opposite one
another. I made a mistake and opened the wrong door. Robina, still
peeling potatoes, was sitting on the bed.
I explained we had made a mistake. Robina said it was of no
consequence whatever, and, taking the potatoes with her, went
downstairs again. Looking out of the window, I saw her making
towards the wood. She was taking the potatoes with her.
"I do wish we hadn't opened the door of the wrong room," groaned
young Bute.
"What a worrying chap you are!" I said to him.
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