“Oh, not I!” cried Stella. “Fancy the bore of ordering dinner with an old-fashioned English cook that would not understand a word one says. You can do it, Charlie. Don’t give the child _pâté de foie gras_,” she added, with a scream. “Who’s the doctor on the strength of the establishment now, Kate? He’ll have to be called in very soon, I can see, and the sooner Job has a bad liver attack the better, for then it may be possible to get him properly looked after. And I must have an English nurse that understands children, instead of that stupid ayah who gives them whatever they cry for. Don’t you think it’s dreadful training to give them whatever they cry for, Kate? You ought to know about children, living all this while at home and never marrying or anything. You must have gone in for charity or nursing, or Churchy things, having nothing to do. Oh, I wish you would take Job in hand! He minds nobody but his father, and his father stuffs him with everything he oughtn’t to have, and keeps him up half the night. One of these days he’ll have such a liver attack that it will cut him off, Charlie; and then you will have the satisfaction of feeling that it’s you that have killed him, and you will not be able to say I haven’t warned you hundreds of times.” “We’ve not come to any harm as yet, have we, Job?” said the father, placing clandestinely another objectionable morsel on the child’s plate. “No, fader. Job not dut off yet,” cried, in his little shrill voice, the unfortunate small boy.