“You wicked boy, what have you done?”
she cried, reproachfully.
“Me washee,” came a cheerful shout; “me
washee from the neck all the way down to the merrythought,
and now washee down from the merrythought to—”
“You have ruined your future. The Times
has printed that miserable letter with your signature.”
A loud squeal of joy came from the bath. “Oh,
Mummy! Let me see!”
There were sounds as of a sprawling dripping body
clambering hastily out of the bath. Francesca
fled. One cannot effectively scold a moist nineteen-year
old boy clad only in a bath-towel and a cloud of steam.
Another messenger arrived before Francesca’s
breakfast was over. This one brought a letter
from Sir Julian Jull, excusing himself from fulfilment
of the luncheon engagement.
Francesca prided herself on being able to see things
from other people’s points of view, which meant,
as it usually does, that she could see her own point
of view from various aspects. As regards Comus,
whose doings and non-doings bulked largely in her thoughts
at the present moment, she had mapped out in her mind
so clearly what his outlook in life ought to be, that
she was peculiarly unfitted to understand the drift
of his feelings or the impulses that governed them.
Fate had endowed her with a son; in limiting the
endowment to a solitary offspring Fate had certainly
shown a moderation which Francesca was perfectly willing
to acknowledge and be thankful for; but then, as she
pointed out to a certain complacent friend of hers
who cheerfully sustained an endowment of half-a-dozen
male offsprings and a girl or two, her one child was
Comus. Moderation in numbers was more than counterbalanced
in his case by extravagance in characteristics.
Francesca mentally compared her son with hundreds
of other young men whom she saw around her, steadily,
and no doubt happily, engaged in the process of transforming
themselves from nice boys into useful citizens.
Most of them had occupations, or were industriously
engaged in qualifying for such; in their leisure moments
they smoked reasonably-priced cigarettes, went to the
cheaper seats at music-halls, watched an occasional
cricket match at Lord’s with apparent interest,
saw most of the world’s spectacular events through
the medium of the cinematograph, and were wont to
exchange at parting seemingly superfluous injunctions
to “be good.” The whole of Bond Street
and many of the tributary thoroughfares of Piccadilly
might have been swept off the face of modern London
without in any way interfering with the supply of
their daily wants. They were doubtless dull as
acquaintances, but as sons they would have been eminently
restful. With a growing sense of irritation
Francesca compared these deserving young men with
her own intractable offspring, and wondered why Fate
should have singled her out to be the parent of such
