“No.”
“Well, I’ll tell you—and the
kids—some of my adventures while you’re
tubbing ’em. Lead on.”
She was at the night-nursery door. Evidently
this man would not see her conventional reason for
not wishing him at the tubbing. Angela had grown
a biggish girl since he went away.
She said, “Please not to-night.”
“I’m jolly well coming,” he chuckled.
The lesson of dependence was wilfully forgotten.
Mary agreed with Angela and David: she hated
this Bob.
“No,” she said sharply, “you are
not.”
He had thrown his cigar into the grate; taken out
another; stooped to the hearth to scratch a match.
His back was to her; to him all her tone conveyed
was that a “rag” was on hand.
“We’ll see,” he laughed; struck
the match.
She stepped swiftly within the door; closed it.
Bob Chater laughed again; ran across.
The lock clicked as she turned the key.
“Let me in!” he cried, rattling the handle.
“Let me in!”
The splash of water answered him.
He thumped the panel. “Open the door!”
“Now, Angela,” he heard her say, “quick
as lightning with that chimmy.”
Bob’s face darkened; he damned beneath his breath.
Then with a laugh he turned away. “I’m
going to have some fun with that girl,” he told
himself; and on the way downstairs, her pretty face
and figure in his mind, pleased himself with vicious
anticipation.
Excursions At A Dinner-Table.
Two distressing reasons combined to compel Mrs. Chater
to give Mary place at the evening meal. There
was the aggravating fact that mothers’-helps,
just as if they were ordinary people, must be fed;
there was also the contingency that servants most strongly
objected to serving a special meal—even
“on a tray”—to one who was not
of the family, yet who had airs above the kitchen.
Except, then, when there were guests Miss Humfray
must be accommodated at late dinner. Mrs. Chater
considered it annoying, yet found in it certain comfortable
advantages—as sympathy from friends:
“Mustn’t it be rather awkward sometimes,
Mrs. Chater?” A plaintive shrug would illustrate
the answer: “Well, it is, of course, very
awkward sometimes; but one must put up with it.
That class of person takes offence so easily, you
know; and I always try to treat my lady-helps as well
as possible.” “I’m sure you
do, Mrs. Chater. How grateful they should be!”
And this time a sad little laugh would illustrate:
“Oh, one hardly expects gratitude nowadays,
does one?”
Mary at dinner must observe certain rules, however.
Certain dishes—a little out of season,
perhaps, or classed as luxuries—were borne
triumphantly past her by a glad parlour-maid acting
upon a frown and a glance that Mrs. Chater signalled.
Certain occasions, again, when private matters were
to be discussed, were heralded by “Miss Humfray,”
in an inflexion of voice that set Mary to fold her
napkin and from the room.
