Anthea was last.
Half-way down to the first landing she turned and ran up again.
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.' As he ate it he sighed more than once.

Perhaps because the chop was nasty, perhaps because he longed for the charm which the children did not want to sell, perhaps because it was so long since anyone cared whether he ate his chops or forgot them.
Anthea caught the others at the stair-foot.