As the butler anxiously waited by the phone, still shaken, the phone rang again.
"How serious is the injury?"
"She... she cut her index finger... She won't let us apply medicine or disinfect it, just put on a band-aid... then drove us out. The Young Mistress said you like the soup she makes, so she insisted no one interferes..."
"Did she really say that?" A glimmer of light flashed in Nangong Yaoling's eyes.
The butler wiped his sweat: "Yes... yes."
Actually, he made this up himself, recalling that last time when the Young Mistress made soup for the Young Master, he drank several bowls in a row. This time, the Young Mistress surely thought the same.
To make the Young Master happy, he casually uttered this sentence.
"I understand, hang up." Nangong Yaoling said lightly.
"Yes... yes, Young Master!" The butler wiped his cold sweat, and only after the line was hung up did he respectfully hang up the phone.
