The door was still open, and the learned gentleman and the
mummy-case were standing opposite to each other, and both looked
as though they had stood like that for years.

The gentleman started when Anthea put her hand on his arm.

'I hope you won't be cross and say it's not my business,' she
said, 'but do look at your chop! Don't you think you ought to
eat it? Father forgets his dinner sometimes when he's writing,
and Mother always says I ought to remind him if she's not at home
to do it herself, because it's so bad to miss your regular meals.

So I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind my reminding you, because
you don't seem to have anyone else to do it.'

She glanced at the mummy-case; IT certainly did not look as
though it would ever think of reminding people of their meals.

The learned gentleman looked at her for a moment before he said--

'Thank you, my dear. It was a kindly thought. No, I haven't
anyone to remind me about things like that.'

He sighed, and looked at the chop.

'It looks very nasty,' said Anthea.

'Yes,' he said, 'it does. I'll eat it immediately, before I
forget.'