The Geese Are Getting Fat

11

The Geese Are Getting Fat

    “Today we are going to meet Micky and Lukey,” said Horrible importantly.

    “Off the stage,” explained Georgey.

    “The stage?” gasped Mina, her eyes very round.

    “Dicky weell be coming on the stage!” piped Amrita.

    “That is a lie!” she said indignantly. “Ignore her, she tells lies all the time,” she said to the Laidlaw children.

    “It isn’t that. I mean she does, of course,” conceded Nobby, “but she means Dicky will come on another stage another day, don’t you, Amrita?”

    “She didn’t mean that at all!” said Mina indignantly.

    “I DEED!” she shouted.

    “That’ll do,” said Nobby hurriedly, feeling about an hundred and two and hoary with it. “Um—well, yes. That’s why Horrible and Georgey can’t play today, you see,” she explained to the Benedicts.

    Mina’s and Amrita’s faces fell.

    “Come with us!” urged Horrible.

    “No! We don’t want more girls!” said Freddy rudely. He was in a bad mood, since his older brothers’ coming home could not but remind him of the school issue. Even though Papa had said he might go back to Harrow with the twins after the holiday because, never mind who was responsible for the fire in the garden, he had had enough of ill-controlled brats hangin’ round the place setting the square by the ears. Freddy hadn’t thought of it for himself but had anybody mentioned the adage to him, he would have agreed that it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good. All of which did not mean that it was not still a sore point that the twins and The Great Mendoza had been at their schools for years while he had had to stay at home like a silly girl.

    “Yes, we do,” said Nobby firmly. “Come on,” she ordered the group.

    Pausing only to extract Paul from a pile of ash and rubble, the party forthwith exited in toto from the ruins of the Lymmond Square garden.

    Jack Laidlaw came into his own sitting-room with his hat and gloves on, rubbing his hands together. “Well! We all... ready?” he finished on a weak note. His party had apparently been augmented by two skinny, hopeful-faced ones. Just as dampish, ashy-edged and roughly scrubbed-looking as his own lot.

    Charlotte got up from the sofa, looking conscious. “The Benedict children would like to go with you, dearest Jack. It will be a squeaze in the carriage, but— ”

    Jack and the children always went without Charlotte to meet the twins, it had become a tradition. Jack would then regale his offspring with the ordinary at the staging house—it had to be the staging house and of course it had to be the ordinary, that was what was so particularly exciting about the expedition—and they would all come home together, very full and shiny-faced.

    “Oh, a couple more won’t matter! The boys will probably want to ride with the driver, anyway,” he said cheerfully.

    Freddy opened his mouth but Jack seized him by the shoulder and propelled him bodily from the room before he could inform his maternal parent where the twins usually chose to ride on the stagecoach.

    Once Nobby, Freddy and Paul had disputed the honour of riding beside the driver and Nobby and Paul had won, largely on the score of Jack’s being quite sure that the twins would barely condescend to let Freddy ride with them, let alone a girl and a brat, Jack, his two younger daughters and the scowling Freddy proceeded to distribute themselves and the Benedict children in the interior of the carriage, Amrita ending up on Jack's knee. He hugged her gently and attempted to draw her out about India, supposing she remembered the elephants?

    “We had elephants!” she piped.

    “Yes. Were they very big?”

    “Elephants are always very big!” noted Freddy scornfully.

    Jack swallowed and did not manage to tell him to keep it shut.

    “Painted elephants,” said Amrita firmly.

    “Eh?” said Jack weakly.

    “Also private elephants.”

    “Eh?”

    “Don’t you know anything, Papa?” said Freddy impatiently.

    “Just keep it shut, this ain’t your story,” said Jack, digging him in the ribs.

    “Their names were Subadar and Ranee and Rajah. They were my elephants. I gave them their food.”

    “Rani Ayah says that is true,” said Mina reluctantly.

    “Really? What did they eat?” asked Jack with genuine curiosity.

    “Beeg... leaves,” produced Amrita.

    “Off trees,” said Horrible helpfully.

    “Also much rice, all cooked. We cook the rice and dal and make a beeg round... a big round. Then give to elephant and he rolls up weeth leaf and puts een mouth and eating,” said Amrita in a rush.

    “Rats!” cried Freddy with awful scorn. “How could he put it in his mouth?”

    “Weeth hees NOSE!” she shouted.

    There was a certain silence in the Laidlaw carriage.

    “Er—yes,” said Jack, very weakly indeed. “She means with his trunk. –Look up ‘prehensile’ in the dictionary when we get home,” he added meanly.

    “Pooh,” muttered Freddy, hunching into his corner.

    “When the elephants go out they paint their heads and trunks, don’t they, Amrita?” said Mina.

    “Yes. Vairy pretty. And cleaning hees toes, vairy pretty and shining.”

    Jack swallowed but as the brats all appeared to accept this one as genuine, he didn’t for the life of him dare to say anything. Instead he asked weakly how they got upon the elephants in order to ride on them and was duly rewarded by being told.

    Michael John Percival Hartington Laidlaw, the elder by half an hour, and Luke James Fulton Laidlaw were now all of sixteen years of age. And when last seen had been damn’ lordly with it. They were destined for Oxford but Jack supposed glumly it was high time they should be thinking what to do with ’em after that. Micky was quite keen on the idea of the Army but Jack knew that Charlotte didn’t want that: one of her brothers had been killed at Waterloo. There was no need for it: Micky was the eldest son and would inherit the bulk of the property. Lukey, who as a younger son would have been theoretically a more suitable candidate for the forces, was not interested. Micky was the active twin, physically heavier and stronger, and very keen on riding and all outdoor pursuits: this year they had not joined the family for the earlier part of the summer because Micky had dragged Lukey off to stay with his friend Peter Allendale in the country, largely in order to fall off all Mr Allendale’s horses. Lukey usually let Micky drag him along wherever he went, though once they got wherever it was he was as likely to pull a book from his pocket or simply fall into a daze as not. Jack had thought dubiously of the Church, but Lukey was not interested. Or rather, he was interested in entirely the wrong sort of way, and had incurred a sound beating for informing his headmaster that he did not see that the teleological argument proved that the Creator had been a Christian rather than a Mohammedan or a Jew. Oh, dear. Make a scholar of him? Jack did not particularly wish that fate for a son of his. He could, of course, stay home and help Micky with the property. And Micky was so good-natured that he wouldn’t hesitate to give Lukey a home for the rest of his life. But would that be particularly good for Lukey’s character? It was all a bit of a problem and Jack could only hope that the University would sort their ideas out a bit for the pair of them.

    Amazingly, the Messrs Laidlaw had not travelled in the rumble but merely upon the roof of the vehicle, this time. Though naturally they had been supplied with sufficient money to allow them to purchase inside tickets. It was tacitly understood that Jack did not enquire as to the fate of the change, so he did not upon this occasion, merely shook hands with them in an appropriately manly fashion.

    Micky was now as tall as he was and nearly as broad, in a terrifyingly green greatcoat, a silver brocade waistcoat with innumerable fobs, and a choking neckcloth. Lukey, even taller but half his twin’s width, was if anything even odder, in a very short jacket over a red spencer, a tired pair of buckskins, and a broken-down pair of boots which Jack at the least had not been aware were in his wardrobe. He appeared to have made the journey hatless, though he was wearing a muffler. Micky, by contrast, sported an amazingly curly-brimmed hat which Jack would scarcely have found admissible upon a racecourse tout.

    “Remind me to take the pair of you to a decent tailor,” he said feebly.

    Micky grinned and thanked him, but Lukey said vaguely: “Oh, don’t bother, Papa, I have plenty of clothes.”

    Nobby then came forward and shook hands in a manly fashion with Micky, but Lukey, though this time last year he would have disclaimed the action with cries of horror, bent and kissed her cheek. Nobby stepped back rubbing the spot, looking startled.

    “You’re not going to kiss me,” warned Horrible grimly.

    “Why not? Aren’t you human?” replied Lukey mildly.

    “No!” choked Freddy. “I say, Papa says I may come back to Harrow  with you!”

    “We know. And let me tell you, brats like you are not permitted to rampage round there in the fashion you do at home,” said Micky repressively. This speech was then spoilt, rather, or so one person present felt, by his aiming a punch at Freddy’s midriff, the which immediately encouraged Freddy to bore in. That being over, and Micky having firmly shaken hands with Horrible, Georgey, and Paul, and Lukey having shaken hands with Horrible and his little brothers but having kissed Georgey before she knew what he was at, Jack was about to introduce the two little strangers, when he received the shock of his life.

    “And you must be Mina Benedict and Amrita Baldaya,” said Lukey kindly. “Mamma has written me about you.” He bent from his great height and kissed them gently. “Very pleased to meet you. I dare say none of these has bothered, so I will say, Welcome to Bath.”

    Jack gulped.

    “Thank you!” squeaked Mina, turning beetroot.

    “Are you a mister?” squeaked Amrita, gazing up at the great length of him.

    “Not quite!” said Lukey with a laugh. He swooped on her—yes, that very same Luke James Fulton Laidlaw who before this day had had to be forced to so much as peck his sisters’ cheeks: Jack’s knees went weak—and picked her up. “You may call me Lukey. This great idiot here is my twin, Micky. He is barely articulate—that means he can barely string two words together: but I dare say he will not eat you. –Say hullo to Amrita and Mina, you loon,” he ordered his twin.

    Grinning sheepishly, Micky greeted Amrita and Mina.

    “Come on inside, for the Lord’s sake, I need a stiff brandy,” croaked Jack, taking his heir’s arm.

    “Going soft in his old age,” explained Micky, grinning, as Lukey strode on ahead, Amrita still on his shoulder and Georgey—yes, Georgiana Louise Mary Amberville Laidlaw: Jack’s knees could now go no weaker without his actually collapsing—clinging onto his free hand possessively. Slate round the neck an’ all.

    “Yes. Is it sudden, old man, or has it been creepin’ up on him?” croaked Jack.

    Micky shrugged. “Creepin’ up, I’d say. Spent half the summer sittin’ with Mrs Allendale playin’ with baby Susie. –Mind you, she’s the prettiest thing you ever saw. Great dark eyes, pink cheeks, so forth.”

    “Uh—the baby?” said Jack limply.

    “No! Well, yes, her too!” he admitted with a sheepish laugh. “Er—no: Mrs A.”

    Jack swallowed. “This is Peter’s Mamma we’re talking of; is it, old chap?"

    “Aye. Pity Peter’s sister Anna don’t take after her,” he added with a face.

    “Oh?” said Jack cautiously. Michael John Percival Hartington Laidlaw had actually condescended to notice—never mind if it was without approval—a girl? God, did it not make you feel old?

    “Pie-faced,” said Micky with a sniff. "After you, sir,” he added, tenderly ushering his aged father into the inn.

    Jack went in, rolling his eyes only very slightly.

    “The cousin ain’t bad, though,” added Micky airily. “Yaller hair. Blue eyes—you know!” he said with a silly laugh.

    Jack nodded numbly.

    “Lilias, her name is. Rather silly, ain’t it?” he said carelessly. “Lilias Jeffreys. Cousin Jack knows the family.”

    Jack passed a hand across his face. “Yes. So he does. I had forgot that Allendale’s place is in the Vale of Keywes. So is this Miss Jeffreys Lord Keywes’s daughter?”

    “Oh, Lord, no, Papa! You have it all wrong! Keywes has no daughters. He is a widower, y’know, with but the one son. Think he’s only about thirteen. Well, Mendoza knows him: ask him.”

    “Uh—good God, Micky, you mean the Jeffreys boy is at Winchester?”

    “Yes, of course!”

    “So this Miss Lilias Jeffreys is what? A niece of Keywes’s?”

    “No, no, other branch of the family! Sussex.”

    In the wake of his recent interview with Aunt Beresford, Jack could only swallow weakly and croak after him like a parrot: “Sussex.”

    “Yes. She was spending part of the summer with her Allendale cousins, and part at Vaudequays to keep Miss Iris Jeffreys company.”

    “What? You just said he had no daughters!”

    “Lor’, Papa, you ain’t half slow today!” he said tolerantly. “Miss Iris is Lord Keywes’ sister, out of course.”

    The rest of their party were now looking with interest round the crowded dining room; Lukey noted slyly: “Even prettier than Miss Lilias.”

    “Pretty, maybe!” said Micky with feeling.

    Lukey laughed. “She is an intelligent and well-read young woman, Papa, and Micky was terrified of her!”

    Jack cleared his throat. “I see. Look, I suppose neither of you registered when Lord Keywes might be back, did you?”

    Micky looked vague. “He’s gone off somewhere fearfully odd, Papa.”

    “Sweden,” said Jack grimly. “It is a highly civilized country. Have you never heard of the cultured life of the Swedish court?”

    “No,” said Micky simply.

    “The cultured life of the Swedish court?” croaked Lukey incredulously. “Papa, Micky has never even heard of Linnaeus!”

    “Who?” said Jack’s heir blankly.

    “I rest my case,” said Lukey drily.

    Jack cleared his throat. “Er—mm. –We are a large party, I fear,” he said as a harried waiter came up to them. “Can you fit us all in?”

    “We’re going to have the ordinary!” squeaked Georgey excitedly.

    “Yessir; this way, h’if you please, sir. –Mind yer elbows, young gents, h’if you please!”

    They all sat down at a table in a far corner of the room, disappointingly nowhere near the window and its view of the bustling street, and not too close to the fire, either, but enticingly near to an enormously fat old gentleman in a tie-wig and a red waistcoat, who was wolfing down an immense meat pie, apparently all on his ownsome.

    “Look at his great pie!” hissed Georgey.

    “Mm. Ssh, Georgey; and don’t point,” murmured Jack.

    “He cannot hear me if I point, Papa!” she hissed.

    “True. –Children, tuck your napkins under your chins. Er, Lukey, perhaps Amrita had best sit by me.”

    “She’s older than Georgey and me,” noted Horrible, scowling, and moving her chair even closer to Jack’s, though the great Sir Isaac Newton might have said that that was not possible.

    “I’ll look after her and Mina,” said Lukey amiably.

    Jack looked limply at his second offspring sitting between two skinny little girls whom he had not even met until ten minutes ago, gravely superintending their tucking of their napkins under their chins.

    “The gravy is often very drippy,” explained Georgey.

    “Mm,” said Jack, making sure her napkin was safely tucked in. “Um—Hell,” he muttered. “Look, Mina: do you and Amrita eat things like meat stew or mutton pie?”

    “Ooh, yes, please, Mr Laidlaw!”

    “Yes, please. I like gravy,” agreed Amrita.

    “Good,” said Jack limply. “It’ll be the ordinary for all of us, then, thanks,” he said to the waiter, “and—er—three tankards of ale, and—uh—can you manage milk for the rest of ’em?”

    After the expected cries of protest had died down and the waiter had staggered off, Jack returned cautiously to the previous subject. “Um—look, what I was trying to say before, twins, do you have any idea of when Lord Keywes might be expected back from Sweden?”

    “I do know that, for Miss Jeffreys mentioned it; and as a matter of fact it was in the Morning Post not long since. –That ‘dull’ paper that Mamma does not read,” murmured Lukey.

    Jack choked. “Aye! But can you remember what it said? Quite soon, is it?”

    “Not until spring. Miss Jeffreys said they do not look to see him before April.”

    “April!”

    “Why do you wish to know, Papa?” asked Micky curiously.

    “Mm? Oh—nothing,” said Jack lamely, hoping to God the little girls did not know that Jeffreys was the name of Amrita’s mother. “Something Cousin Jack mentioned.” He sank back into his seat, neglecting to notice Horrible surreptitiously loosening the napkin at her throat. Hell: April! How was he to keep Charlotte’s enthusiasm for the Benedicts in check until then? Not to mention damn’ Jack’s enthusiasm for Lady B.!

    They had their usual delightful time over the ordinary—mutton pie, huge cheddar cheese and all—but nevertheless for Jack Laidlaw the day was marred by this recurrence of the Jeffreys theme.

    “But I thought you were going to Mr Kernohan’s party?” cried Daphne in astonishment, as Dom declared that on Christmas Eve he would be accompanying the ladies to the Abbey after all.

    “No,” he said, scowling. “Of course not.”

    Nan gave him a sharp look but said only: “Eet would not be inappropriate for you, Dom, I theenk. Would eet, Miss Gump?”

    Miss Gump, in her usual fluttering style, agreed, mentioning such points as black gloves, not dancing if Mr Dom felt he would prefer not to, Mr Kernohan’s doubtless understanding his reasons, and her Cousin Elias Pratt’s experience on a very similar occasion.

    “You said that Ferdy Sotheby said that eet was always a splendidly jolly hop,” objected Daphne.

    “‘Mr’ Sotheby, my dear, and a lady does not use such expressions as ‘splendidly jolly’ or ‘hop’,” murmured Miss Gump.

    “Vairy well, then, Mr Sotheby,” said Daphne impatiently. “But you deed, Dom!”

    “I have just SAID, I am NOT GOING!” shouted Dom, slamming out of the room.

    “Oh, dear!” gasped Miss Gump.

    “Nan, there is something wrong, I think,” said Susan, pinkening.

    “Yes,” agreed Nan uncertainly. “Forgive his shouting, dear Miss Gump. He ees clearly disturbed over something, no?”

    “Oh, yes, indeed, my dear! Very evidently so! Quite understandable, I am sure! Could it have been that interview with Mr Henry Kernohan? But I am told he is the pleasantest gentleman in Bath!”

    “Eet must be that,” said Daphne dubiously. “Unless he has the toothache.”

    “He cannot have the toothache, for he ate a large breakfast,” objected Susan.

    This was true. The girls looked hopefully at Nan. Miss Gump also looked hopefully at Nan.

    She swallowed a sigh. “Do not look at me, for I have no notion what eet may be.”

    “Ask heem,” suggested Daphne baldly.

    Privately Nan thought she might. But she said firmly: “Dom ees grown up now, Daphne. Eet ees up to him to tell me eef he weeshes.”

    Daphne pouted. “He ees not twenty-one yet. And eet’s my birthday before hees!”

    Since Daphne’s reminders that her birthday fell in January had lately become not merely frequent but tedious, Nan looked at her crossly, Susan looked at her distressfully, and Miss Gump protested faintly: “My dear, did we not speak on that subject?”

    Daphne pouted.

    Susan cleared her throat. “Could it be that he—he perhaps called on Miss Beresford and that—that she was not at home to him?”

    “Ooh!” said Daphne, cheering up immediately. “Like Nan and Mr Amory: yes! Could eet, Nan?”

    Nan got up suddenly. “Thees ees nonsense. Een the first place eet ees all speculation, and een the second place, Miss Beresford ees a young girl at home: eef any person were refusing a caller admission, eet would not be she, but her mother. Excuse me, I have theengs to do.”

    She hurried right along the upstairs corridor to the top of the stairs. There she paused, her bosom heaving. Why she should suddenly be so very angry with all three of them she could not quite tell. But she had a suspicion there were several reasons, of which not the least was that they were all three female and, in their own ways, boring and silly. Miss Gump was well-meaning, but although she had a certain amount of intelligence she appeared never to have learned to apply it. And Daphne, though she was Nan’s own sister and she loved her, had not a thought in her head. Susan had more sense, that was true, but her stepmamma had discovered that behind the good manners and the sweet nature there was only a limited brain, and that though Susan, unlike Daphne, was capable of reading a book straight through, she preferred novels of the frivolous variety, and had failed not only with Rob Roy, with which Nan, who had found it very Scotch, had quite sympathized, but also with Pride and Prejudice. Nan had now discovered with terrific relief that Charlotte Laidlaw was a great reader like herself—though not, of course, in Portuguese, nor even in French, which Nancy Jeffreys Baldaya had started to teach her daughter and which Nan, at John Edwards’s insistence, had persevered with, with the aid of Soeur Catherine from the convent.

    Nan breathed hard, and tried not to let herself wonder why Mrs Laidlaw’s initial suggestion that they might all join forces for their Christmas celebrations had never borne fruit, and if this could have anything to do with Dom’s not attending Mr Kernohan’s party after all.

    She then went downstairs to the little room which Dom had decided would be his study. It was somewhat odd-looking, for if it featured several large pieces of mahogany furniture in the style of the last century, as Hugo’s study had, and a couple of large armchairs, as Hugo’s study had, it also featured several large brass vases and trays which had come with them from India, a small carved ivory elephant which Dom had had ever since his childhood, and a large pink and blue floral rug in the Persian style which must be at least as old as he and Nan, for they could remember having had it in the house all their lives. Not to mention a dark, severe portrait of a man in black with a small beard and small ruff, who, though he could scarcely be, as Amrita maintained, the famous Alfonso Baldaya, was certainly some sort of ancestor of their father’s. Miss Gump had declared that Dom had the portrait’s eyes: this could have been true, for the painting was so dark no-one could have contradicted her with any confidence.

    Nan tapped cautiously on the door. After a moment it opened a crack and Dom peered out. “Oh,” he said in relief. “Eet’s only you. Come een.”

    Nan came in and Dom resumed what he had apparently been doing, which was sitting on his rug in front of the fire, hugging his knees. Even though she was in European dress, Nan sat down beside him.

    He sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you. Hugo would say eet’s the sort of theeng a fellow should keep to himself, I am sure.”

    “Perhaps he would. But I theenk he was not rigid een hees ideas, no?”

    “No,” he said, sighing again. “You’re right: he wasn’t. I theenk I had better tell you. Actually, I theenk that ees why Mr Kerhohan told me. I must say, he’s a thoroughly good fellow, and eet’s a great pity he has a wife already!”

    “Er—yes,” said Nan weakly.

    Glumly Dom reported what Mr Henry had said. “Well?” he said, swallowing, as Nan did not say anything for some time.

    “I see,” she said slowly. “I was wrong: I should have taken Hugo’s advice.”

    “What about?” he asked cautiously.

    Nan wrinkled her little straight nose. “About getting een touch weeth Mamma’s family. When I said I deed not weesh ever to have anything to do weeth the horrid theengs, he—he gave een,” she said, biting her lip.

    Dom made a face. “Aye.”

    “So what should we do, Dom?” she said plaintively.

    Dom gulped. “Me?” His sister’s big dark eyes looked hopefully into his. “Um—Lord, I don’t know, Nan! Hope Mr Amory’s family do find out the truth and stop the rumour for us?”

    Nan also hugged her knees and leant her chin on them. “Mm. For myself, I don’t care a feeg! But we have Daphne and Susan to settle respectably, and then Mina and Amrita coming along, and after them Johnny and Rosebud.”

    “Yes,” he agreed glumly.

    “Could we try to get een touch with the Jeffreys family? They must know Papa and Mamma were married, for Papa wrote them about eet, and also when we were born; I do know that.”

    “Ye-es... That lawyer fellow, he would do eet for us!” said Dom in some relief.

    “Mr Quigley: yes. But what eef he finds them and they weell steell not recognise us, Dom?”

    Dom made a face. “That’s possible. But remember what John used to say about not crossing our bridges before we came to ’em? The first theeng weell be to contact these Jeffreys people, and see eef they weell recognise us. Then eef they weell, we shall work out some way een which to show Bath the fact. And eef they won’t, that weell be the time to worry about eet!” he finished on a pleased note.

    Nan smiled. “Yes. You’re right, Dom. Your mind ees vairy logical, eet’s such a relief!”

    “What, after them three hens upstairs? I should think so!” he said, frankly laughing.

    “Yes,” she admitted, pink but smiling. “So you theenk Susan ees a hen, too?”

    “Aye. Good sort of girl, vairy ladylike and all that, but not all that much between the ears, really.”

    Nan sighed. So much for her vague hopes that Dom and Susan might marry, some time in the future. “No. There are so few people who do have. –Sometimes I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “eef that was partly Mamma’s trouble. I mean, that she misbehaved because she was bored.”

    “No-one could misbehave that badly just out of boredom. But I theenk you could have a point, there. God knows the Portuguese lot were a collection of bores and dullards. Dare say her own family was worse. –Well, dammit, look at Hugo’s lot, eef y’want an example of your typical English county family! Dull as ditch water! Leetle Mina’s the only one that’s got a fraction of hees brain or spirit!”

    Nan sighed. “I theenk so, too. But there’s steell Rosebud, she’s bright and determined enough!”

    “Ain’t she, though! I don’t dare to let her een here, after that time she shrieked for my elephant! You would theenk she would have forgotten about eet by now, but no! We was merely passing the door t’other day and she started shrieking: ‘Effunt! Effunt!’” he said, laughing. “But eet would not do, she’d break eet.”

    “Yes. Let’s hope she has the brains to back up her determination,” said Nan, sighing a little.

    “Must have brains: saw the door, remembered what was een here!”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Tell you what, I shall leave eet to her in my weell! Mr Quigley said I must make one, when I turn twenty-one.”

    “Of course. But let us not forget,” said Nan with a naughty look in her eye, “that before your birthday, eet ees—”

    “Lord, don’t go on!” he groaned. “I am so sick of the topic, I theenk I weell not give her a present for eet! –Well , what do you theenk?”

    “What? Oh! Yes, weell you contact Mr Quigley about finding Mamma’s family?”

    “Yes—eef you theenk eet would come best from me?”

    “Yes, I do.”

    There was a short silence.

    “Are you pushing me eento thees for my own good, Nan?” he said suspiciously.

    Nan gave her little gurgle of laughter. “Only vairy partly, dearest Dom! What a relief eet ees, to have someone see through me!”

    Dom grinned. “Well, I don’t  mind.”

    Nan went away from this interview feeling with some surprise, not unmixed with a good deal of relief, that Dom was really growing up at last.

    Dom himself was left with a sensation of mixed pride that his sister had leant on him in this crisis, instead of vice versa, and unease that he wouldn’t be able to come up to her expectations of him. On the whole, however, the pride had it over the unease and he felt himself to be, oddly but quite definitely, something like two feet taller than he had been an hour earlier, and broader proportionately in the shoulders.

    The Great Mendoza had written loftily to his loving family not to meet him off the stage for he was not a brat. Nevertheless, as the stage got in pretty late, Jack went to meet it. Micky volunteered in a lordly way to accompany his aged progenitor; Jack could only presume it was to see he did not totter under any carriage wheels.

    Dicky had written loftily to his loving family not to meet him off the stage for he was not a brat. Nevertheless Dom went to meet it. Accompanied by Richpal in his uniform turban and with a blanket over his heavy greatcoat and by Sita Ayah likewise in a greatcoat, with her blanket over head and all. Calculated to make a Wykehamist feel conspicuous, you could have said.

    The Great Mendoza was off first. Literally, not merely first of the two boys. His relatives had not expected otherwise. In spite of the letter he looked round eagerly. “Told you,” muttered Jack.

    “Naturally,” replied Micky tolerantly. He strolled forward, his hand held out. “Hulloa, Mendoza. I say, you is grown some, eh?”

    Jack tottered feebly in his wake.

    Dicky was off next. Likewise looking round hopefully. Though admittedly his first words were: “I say, you deed not have to meet  me!”

    “Pooh. You’re lookin’ well,” said Dom, holding out his hand.

    Dicky shook it with an expression of boundless relief on his round, pugnacious face. On the ill-fated occasion of his return from his first Winchester term Dom had kissed him in front of Hugo and everyone.

    “Er—who’s thees?” said Dom as another boy then followed Dicky out.

    At the same time Jack said: “Hulloa! This ain’t one of ours, is it?”

    Dicky disengaged himself from Sita’s embrace. “Bus! That’s enough! –Jeffreys. He ain’t with me, exactly. Laidlaw and I thought he might bunk een with one of us. Thees ees m’brother.” Dom and Master Jeffreys shook hands.

    At the same time Mendoza was explaining: “Jeffreys. His aunt writ him to break his journey here. Baldaya and I thought he might bunk in with one of us.”

    “He’ll have to, there ain’t any more beds made up,” said Jack limply. “How are you, Jeffreys?”

    “This is m’father,” explained Mendoza.

    Master Jeffreys was, Jack thought, a trifle younger than Mendoza. He was not as tall, and his cheeks and jaw still had that round look, and his nose was not yet fully developed. Nevertheless he was very obviously growing up, for his voice cracked midway between a growl and a squeak as he shook hands politely and said: “Very glad to meet you, sir. Hope it won’t be no bother. We thought I might bunk in with Laidlaw or Baldaya. Aunt Kate’s due to meet me tomorrow.”

    “Comin’ up from the Vale of Keywes,” explained Mendoza airily.

    Jack’s knees went saggy. He was that Jeffreys, of course! “I see,” he managed.

    “Oh, by the by, this is Baldaya, Papa,” added Mendoza.

    “Of course.” Jack shook hands with Dicky.

    “Jeffreys wants to see our Indian stuff. And I’ve told heem that Sita Ayah and Rani Ayah are bound to have laid on a great feast,” explained Dicky

    Jeffreys looked hopefully at Dom.

    “Then of course, come to us!” he said, laughing. “We have many rooms, and my sister weell be glad to see you. And we shall never get through all the food alone, they always cook for a regiment!”

    “That sounds fun,” noted Micky wistfully.

    “I’ll say! Baldaya has been tellin’ me all about their splendid feasts!” agreed Mendoza immediately.

    Jack cleared his throat.

    Smiling, Dom said: “No, please, Mr Laidlaw, do not reprimand them for hinting! Nan asked me to say that eef you should care for eet, she would love to have you all. But she understands that Mrs Laidlaw may desire to see her son on hees return from hees school!”

    Jack hesitated. Dom extended the invitation warmly to the rest of his family. Jack explained that the brats had been packed off to bed, and Charlotte had a slight cold, but—

    “That ees settled, then!” said Dom finally with his pleasant laugh. “Mendoza allows his Mamma to get a glimpse of heem, and then you come on over to our house, yes?”

    Jack agreed feebly to this and watched feebly as Baldaya packed his lot into his carriage. “Come along,” he then said limply to his own two. “If you truly wish for this Indian feast, that is.”

    They both gave him looks of kindly, tolerant scorn, and he tottered feebly into his carriage.

    “Thees ees Jeffreys,” said Dicky tersely after his relatives had embraced him and he had grimly shaken Miss Gump’s hand before she could do likewise. “Dom said you would not mind, eef he stayed for the night. His aunt’s meeting heem tomorrow.”

    “Of course I do not mind! You’re vairy welcome, Jeffreys! But I cannot call you that,” said Nan, smiling at the boy and wondering wildly if it had occurred to Dom that quite possibly this young Wykehamist was a connexion of Mamma’s and that his family might not care for him to be staying with the offspring of the black sheep of their family. “What’s your name?”

    “Nan,” said the writhing Dicky, “a Wykehamist don’t get called by his first name!”

    “He ees not at school now,” replied Nan firmly, trying not to laugh. “I theenk no-one has explained, but I am Lady Benedict,” she added to Master Jeffreys.

    “He knows!” said Dicky scornfully.

    “How do you do, Lady Benedict?” said Jeffreys, the voice cracking on the final syllable. “I’m George Jeffreys, actually.”

    “George? That’s a nice name, vairy English,” said Nan, ignoring the writhing Dicky. “Of course you must stay the night, George: we have plenty of room.”

    She and Dom between them then ascertained, not without difficulty, in fact more in the manner of tooth-drawing than anything, where—at the staging-inn—and when—towards noon—Master George Jeffreys was due to meet his aunt, and sent the pair of them upstairs to wash and get out of their boots. Then Nan looked drily at her brother.

    “Tell me he is not our relative eef you dare.”

    “Um—well, he ees Lord Keywes’s son—”

    “Really, Dom!”

    “Well, pooh, too bad eef his family don’t care for eet: they should not let a brat of that age travel over southern England alone!”

    Nan sighed heavily. “Just be sure you do not mention that Mamma’s name was Jeffreys.”

    “Well, I shan’t. Though I dare say Dicky has already mentioned eet.”

    “Dicky?” she said incredulously.

    “Uh—well, no!”

    “Quite,” said Nan with a twinkle.

    It would have been more or less fair to say that the evening’s feast was enjoyed by all present. Certainly by the majority of those actually eating, like Micky, Lukey, Mendoza, Nobby, Freddy and Jack Laidlaw, and by those merely serving, like Rani Ayah, Sita Ayah, Ranjit, Richpal, Krishna, William and Alfred; and even by Miss Gump, hovering and picking. It was her habit to do so on such occasions: the family was now used to it, but Nan could only hope that the Laidlaws would not remark it, or at the least not be maddened by it.

    Jack apologized for bringing his tribe, but as Nan pointed out, laughing, they had enough for ten tribes. Jack also apologized for bringing Cousin Jack Beresford, who had dropped in to see the boys.

    “I was hungry,” said Mr Beresford soulfully.

    “Of course: all boys are hungry: eet’s a well-known phenomenon,” returned Nan primly.

    Mr Beresford’s handsome face lit up and he laughed very much. The Laidlaw twins exchanged glances. There went Cousin Jack again!

    Cousin Jack proceeded to sit himself down at Lady Benedict’s right hand. After a short and silent jockeying for position, and the administering of an amazed glare, Jack Laidlaw beat his second and third sons to the place at her left by a whisker. Young Master Jeffreys was merely an also-ran. Jack sank down limply onto a silken cushion. True, there was more than some excuse for any male: Lady Benedict was in a glowing pink silk saree this evening. The tiny jacket underneath it—Jack did not think he had imagined that he heard the twins both gulp as they caught sight of the gap between it and the waist—was the same colour, but closely embroidered in small gold lozenges. She had large pearls in her ears but frankly, you scarcely noticed those.

    What with the young guests and Mr Beresford having to have it explained to them that everyone had his own tray, and it was the done thing to eat with the fingers—Freddy and Nobby brightened noticeably—and instead of the one plate as we would in England you had this selection of little dishes all to yourself on your tray, and so forth, not to mention dire warnings about the pickles, it was some time before Mr Beresford looked up from a selection of rice pullow, turkarry of chicken with nuts, split peas in a savoury sauce, a green vegetable done with what seemed to be small squares of curd cheese, and the famous vindaloo—pork, today—not to say a small bowl of curds and, in spite of warnings, two sorts of pickle, to say with a smile to his hostess: “I think there may be one or two here that I haven’t met, as a matter of fact.”

    “I’m sorry,” said Nan, smiling at him, and thinking he was very attractive, really, in a lean, dark way, but all the same wishing he wouldn’t look her into her eyes in quite that fashion. “That ees my younger brother, Dicky, over there, and next heem ees his friend George Jeffreys.”

    Mr Beresford choked on a mouthful of rice.

    Dicky and George were talking happily, largely with their mouths full, but at this George looked up and gave him a cheerful grin. “Good evening, Mr Beresford.”

    “How are you, George?” said Mr Beresford limply. “Nice to see you.”

    Nan looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She did not think the choking had been the rice’s fault, for the pullao was entirely bland. After a moment’s debate with herself she said: “You know George’s family, then?”

    “Yes,” said Mr Beresford limply.

    Nan ate a nut in a composed manner. “We do not. He ees merely breaking his journey weeth us.”

    “Oh.” Mr Beresford cleared his throat. “I have known his father this age. And his late grandfather: he and my father were close friends.”

    “Really?” said Nan politely.

    “Yes. I have not seen George for a while. He’s grown,” he said lamely.

    “Yes,” said Nan, smiling a little. “I expect he has. We notice a change een Dicky every time he comes home from school.”

    Mr Beresford nodded mutely, and there was a short silence. Nan ate another nut. She could see that the cousins were almost equally ill-at-ease. So—Mr Beresford and Mr Laidlaw must know of the family connexion, and must have heard something to the Baldayas’ discredit. Though as to which tale it might be, of the ones of which Mr Henry Kernohan had warned Dom—!

    It was very late by the time the bloated and shiny-faced visitors left, Nobby wringing Lady Benedict’s hand fervently and assuring her, should she wish for a companion if the possibility of her returning to India arose, that she herself would be available.

    “Dashed intelligent woman,” said Mr Beresford thoughtfully to his cousin as they rounded the square. “Have you ever heard of this Mme de Stael she was on about?”

    “No,” admitted Jack Laidlaw cheerfully.

    “Chateaubriand?” suggested Mr Beresford.

    His cousin returned vaguely: “Was he one of Boney’s generals, or some such?”

    “Not precisely. –Lord, stuck out there in India most of her life, and she knows more of the literature and politics of Europe than you do, Jack!”

    “I suppose they get the papers, in India,” he said grumpily. “Even if they do take six months to arrive. –Listen, Jack,” he said cautiously, as the boys and Nobby walked on ahead, with the customary shoving, scuffling and skipping, “they didn’t have a clue that young Jeffreys would be turning up with the boys.”

    “I gathered that.”

    Mr Laidlaw swallowed. “Who is this aunt that’s collecting him? Keywes’s sister?”

    “No, it’ll be Miss Jeffreys, Robert’s aunt. Terrifying female. Grim spinster—you know.”

    “No, I don’t know. It’ll be a nice surprise for her, won’t it, to discover whom the brat’s been staying with?”

    Mr Beresford replied in a bored voice: “I dare say.”

    Jack Laidlaw thought it over, frowning. “Look, Jack, seems to me there must be something smoky, then, or Lady Benedict would have come right out and said they were related!”

    Jack Beresford frowned. He had reached that conclusion some time since. “Rubbish,” he said shortly. “She may not even know of the connection.”

    His cousin looked dubious, but did not pursue the topic.

    Nan was already in bed, yawning, when Dom tapped on her door and came in, in his dressing-gown. “Went off all right,” he said airily.

    “Yes, thank goodness. Though I am sure Mr Beresford and Mr Laidlaw have heard the stories about us.”

    “Yes, well, eef you don’t want to encourage Beresford, you won’t have to put heem off, for that will do eet,” he noted sourly. “But I rather like heem.”

    “I rather like heem, too, but he’s the merest boy!”

    Dom grinned. “Leetle to choose between him and that absurd brat, Lukey Laidlaw, een fact!”

    “Vairy leetle.”

    “Micky seemed to admire Daphne,” he noted. “Though he’s a bit young for her.”

    “Yes; but fortunately her mind ees rigid enough to classify heem merely as a schoolboy.”

    “Oh, aye. And what does your mind classify heem as, or don’t I dare ask?”

    Nan replied with a smile: “Attractive male of the hearty, huntin’ sort, as yet unfledged. Shall I go on?”

    “Do,” he said in a hollow voice.

    Calmly his sister continued: “No eentellectual capacity but well-meaning and, I should say, good-natured. Just a leetle spoilt, no?—through being the eldest son. Vairy soon he weell grow into the sort of man who marries a girl, puts her een hees house and, apart from getting a baby on her every year, eegnores her, but een quite a tolerant fashion, for the rest of their lives.”

    Even though Dom knew her very well, he cried: “Hell, Nan! That’s comin’ eet too strong!”

    “No, eet eesn’t. Theenk about eet. Most of Hugo’s neighbours were like that.”

    Dom made a face. “Aye. –So that’s to be Daphne’s fate, eh? Poor soul.”

    “No, no, Dom, you don’t understand! How can I put eet... She ees the sort of girl who would not only expect that fate but desire eet. Have you not noticed how that empty-headed sort of girl, who appears to theenk of beaux to the exclusion of all else when she ees growing up—apart from her dress, but the two are connected—that that sort of girl vairy quickly marries and settles down to a life devoted entirely to her house and her children, paying virtually no further attention to her husband? As eef...” Nan frowned over it. “As eef the whole purpose of her being was but to produce the next generation, and the seeming urgency of her early attitude towards the opposite sex was merely a passing phase, directed to that end. And certainly not an eendication that she has any true eenterest een, or even liking for, men.”

    Dom thought it over. He made a face. “See what you mean. But ain’t that to reduce the human race to the status of animals, Nan?”

    Calmly Nan replied: “I have often thought that women like Daphne are leetle more than animals. Men like Micky Laidlaw also, of course.”

    “Mm. Well, let us hope that Prema’s view ees correct, then, and they’ll both attain some higher level of being, next time round!” He got up, grinning. “Good-night, Nan!” He bussed her cheek and went off, looking very cheerful.

    Nan sighed and lay down slowly. Sita Ayah bustled in to put the candles out: Nan did not prevent her. But she did not immediately close her eyes. She lay awake for some time, thinking about the fates of boys and girls, and men and women. And wondering what her own fate would be. Would she be condemned to marry the sort of man that Micky Laidlaw was developing into, merely for the sake of—well, marriage? Would it be preferable to remain single for the rest of her days? On the whole Nan rather thought it might be. Oh, dear, how lowering. But there certainly did not at this moment seem to be any prospect of the other, much rarer sort of gentleman’s happening along. She had been lucky to have met Hugo Benedict. It was the sort of luck that was not likely to occur twice in a lifetime. If only— Nan bit her lip, resolutely shut her eyes, and tried to go to sleep.

    “Well, it is JUST NUTS!” shouted Georgey, puce-faced.

    Charlotte sighed. “You had your turn earlier, dear.”

    Georgey pouted.

    Charlotte sighed. “Georgey, either you may behave yourself and put on your new pelisse and come with me and Paul to take our little boxes round, or you may stay home and sulk. The choice is up to you.”

    Taking their little boxes round was a tradition in the Laidlaw family, the week before Christmas. As the two youngest it was Georgey’s and Paul’s privilege to accompany Charlotte when she did it. Georgey hesitated, but gave in, and ran to get her pelisse.

    At Aunt Sissy’s Aunt Sissy was in, and thrilled to see them. She accepted her three little boxes with delight, as if it did not happen every year without fail, and her one large box which contained one of Cook’s Christmas puddings with fluttering protests, as if that did not also happen every year. Paul and Georgey then got a gingerbread man each, which also happened every year, and, if they did not manage to look surprised, they were genuinely pleased. Aunt Sissy then, in mysterious tones, promised them a surprise for Christmas, said she would not keep them, kissed them all, apparently not even seeing Paul’s and Georgey’s squirming, and saw them out to the carriage. Charlotte protesting, as she did every year, that it was too chilly, and Aunt Sissy must not stand around in the cold.

    “I wager the surprise will be knitted mittens,” said Paul glumly as the carriage started off again.

    “Put—it—away,” said Charlotte in an evil voice as Georgey felt behind her for the slate, which Charlotte had earlier with her own hands taken off her person and deposited there.

    “But—”

    “It was not a real wager,” said Paul hurriedly.

    Georgey subsided, pouting.

    At old Cousin Theodore Laidlaw’s old Cousin Theodore was in, and thrilled to see them. He accepted his little box with delight, said teasingly that he would wish to open it now, as he did every year, and greeted the large box which contained one of Cook’s Christmas puddings with astonished cries, as if that did not also happen every year. Paul and Georgey this year got a marzipan mouse each with pink ears and tail and were overcome, not knowing whether to preserve them in order to admire them and show them off to their siblings or eat them up quickly. Charlotte laughed and kissed the fat old man’s cheek, telling him no-one had managed to  guess what his little treat would be this year, and he was as inventive as ever! She then made sure he had plenty of firewood and kindling and that his landlady was looking after him properly, and they took their leave. Cousin Theodore pressing a half-guinea each for the twins into her hand at the last moment as he did every year, and Charlotte not liking to refuse it, though she knew the dear old man could not afford it.

    In the carriage she blew her nose very hard and didn’t even hear Georgey and Paul arguing over whose mouse was fractionally larger.

    At old Aunt John Fairchild’s house the children refused point-blank to get out of the carriage. This happened every year. Charlotte said with heavy patience: “She is not a witch.”

    “We know!” snarled Paul.

    Georgey pouted. “There ain’t no such things as witches.”

    “No, exactly. So come inside, if you please.”

    “She LOOKS like one!” shouted Paul.

    “And she smells!” cried Georgey.

    “Ssh. She does not smell. It is only liniment.”

    “I hate it,” said Georgey sulkily. “And she always pinches your cheek.”

    “Yes,” agreed Paul.

    Charlotte sighed and used the threat she used every year. “You may come inside with me to visit with old Aunt John for a few minutes, or you may resign yourself to no more visits today. Now!”

   Sulkily they came. Aunt John did look like a witch and she did smell terribly of liniment: in fact the whole of her little house was permeated with it and the cup of tea she foisted upon Charlotte even tasted of it. But there, she had hardly any family left on the Fairchild side, and she had lost one son at Trafalgar and another at Waterloo, and she suffered badly in her joints, poor old thing, and really—! It was but once a year! Aunt John accepted the little box and the Christmas pudding, as she did every year, with the grim remark that Charlotte should not have bothered, and that she supposed this would in any case be the last year she need do so. Georgey and Paul did get their cheeks pinched, but they also each got a shiny new penny: this happened every year, but every year they appeared to have forgotten the fact. They both cheered up immediately: they appeared to have forgotten that they did so every year.

    Mr Percival Hannaway, who was not a relative but a very old friend of Jack’s late grandfather, was in, in fact he appeared to be expecting them, because Charlotte’s little box (but no pudding: he was quite comfortably off) was countered by an huge armful of parcels for the whole family. And a little something special for Paul and Georgey, since they had taken the trouble to drive out to see an old man! –Was it only cupidity, wondered Charlotte silently, as the two opened their large “little somethings”, that prevented their remarking on the facts that dear old Mr Percival smelled strongly of snuff and camphor and that his large, crumpled, hook-nosed, warty face was most certainly the nearest male equivalent imaginable to a witch? In fact the word “ogre” would scarce have been too strong, for he was tall and fat with hair on the backs of his hands and fingers.

    Georgey’s parcel was very soft. “Fur!” she gasped.

    It was a large grey muff which exactly matched her tippet. Charlotte went very red and lodged an inarticulate protest but the old gentleman only chuckled. –Given the circumstances it was a kindly chuckle but objectively, did it not strike the ear as having an ogreish ring? Apparently not, no: Georgey actually, though of course only upon request, kissed his puce-veined cheek.

    Paul’s parcel was long and thin and hard.

    “A riding crop!” he gasped.—Old Mr Percival winked at Charlotte.—“Now Mendoza will absolutely have to let me ride Fiery Steed, when he is at school!”

    Fiery Steed was older than Mendoza was. And about as fiery, pace the name, as old Mr Percival. Weakly Charlotte agreed: “Yes, indeed, my love. So he will.”

    Mr Percival saw them as far as the doorstep, and stood on it, waving. His house was old, of grey stone, and into the bargain, as he had been fond of the Gothick in his younger days, adorned with lithe crenellations and turrets, and really, the unprejudiced mind would have said it as nearly resembled an ogre’s castle as was possible within the bounds of the shores of England!

    “I love Mr Percival!” said Georgey ecstatically, rubbing her cheek against her muff.

    “He’s a decent old chap,” pronounced Paul judiciously, whacking the crop against his knee in an experimental fashion.

    Oh, well.

    Miss Grainger was next. “I’ll show her my muff!” cried Georgey. “I’ll show her my crop!” cried Paul.

     Last year they had refused to enter Miss Grainger’s house on the score of her giving horrid kisses. Oh, well.

    Miss Grainger had made mince pies, as she did every year and, as there were every year, there were two special ones with “P” and “G” on them in red icing. (Pinkish red: cochineal.) As she did every year Miss Grainger reminded the children to mind their teeth, for these pies could bite! Of course there was a sixpence in each pie.

    Back in the carriage, Georgey said gravely: “Sevenpence and a muff,” and wrote it upon the slate before Charlotte could stop her. “7d and a Muf.” Oh, well.

    Then it was old Mrs Hart. That was no problem, Georgey and Paul liked old Mrs Hart. Every year she gave them a glass each (Charlotte, too) of her special mixture. Charlotte had never quite dared to ask what was in it. It made your insides suspiciously warm. But the children loved it, and it was so sweet and nice, that she had never voiced, even to dearest Jack, her fears that it was alcoholic. And they were only small glasses. And it was only once a year!

    Unexpectedly, not only was her granddaughter June Chalfont sitting with old Mrs Hart when they arrived but also Cherry and Sir Noël Amory. Charlotte greeted him limply. Good gracious, he was good-looking! And—well, she was only a little provincial mouse, but even she could see that his clothes were wonderful! He looked just so incongruous, in Mrs Hart’s steeply gabled little room with its faded blue dimity hangings!

    Georgey eyed the baronet narrowly. “Where is your team?” she asked before Charlotte could leap upon her and choke her into silence.

    Sir Noël replied with the utmost composure: “My coachman is driving ’em round a bit, it is too cold today to keep them standing. Which one are you, may I ask?”

    “Georgey.”

    “Yes: this is Georgey, and this is Paul. They’re the youngest ones, apart from the baby,” said Cherry quickly.

    “How do you do, Georgey—Paul,” said Sir Noël composedly.

    “And I am sorry to disappoint you, but he has not got his curricle with him on this visit,” Cherry informed the children with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Oh, nuts,” muttered Georgey.

    “Georgey, that will do,” said Charlotte hurriedly. “Now, who has the little box for Mrs Hart?”

    Mrs Hart had very little money but as there was the whole of the Witherspoon tribe to look after her Charlotte did not customarily bring her a pudding. She accepted the box from Paul with beaming smiles and much nodding, as she did every year. And then insisted on kissing him, as she did every year, telling him he was growing to be such a big boy! Paul squirmed and smiled palely.

    It was quite some time before they got away, for Mrs Hart wished to hear all about the doings of Charlotte’s children. Sir Noël and Cherry very soon took their leave, taking June up with them in their carriage.

    Mrs Hart nodded and smiled significantly at Charlotte.

    “What do you think, Mrs Hart?” said Charlotte fearfully. “I had not actually met him before. He seems very grand, does he not?”

    “My dear, I truly think it may work out! He is looking after her so carefully and attentively! Did you remark her new pelisse?”

    Charlotte most certainly had; she had never seen Cherry looking half so well. The pelisse was a deep violet shade in a heavy wool, with a matching bonnet. Cherry’s big deep blue eyes seemed almost to pick up the violet shade from it. And with it she had had a black fur tippet which the baronet had made sure was pulled close around her throat before they left Mrs Hart’s cosy room, and a huge black muff.

    “Yes: charming,” she smiled. “And a delightful muff and tippet.”

    “June tells me he bought the outfit for her. –Do not be shocked by his doing so, my dear,” she added, as Charlotte’s jaw dropped, “for it appears her mother refused to send her clothes on, when she went to stay at Doubleday House.” She nodded significantly.

    “Good gracious,” said Charlotte limply. She barely even noticed Georgey standing up and holding out the skirts of her own pelisse, announcing: “I got a new pelisse, Mrs Hart! And a muff! And sevenpence!”

    This was all duly admired, but although Mrs Hart was bedridden her mind was quite clear and she returned to the previous topic. “So you see,” she concluded, nodding terrifically: “it is all working out for the best!”

    “Yes. Let us hope so,” croaked Charlotte, managing a feeble smile.

     Mrs Hart nodded and smiled.

    “She nods a lot,” noted Paul percipiently as they got into the carriage.

    “Er—yes,” said Charlotte weakly.

    After that it was judged better to drive out into the country a little way in order to see Betty Baker and old Nanny Rose, leaving Mr Ninian Dalrymple’s house, Borrowdale, near the outskirts of the town, for their return. Betty Baker had been Charlotte’s mother’s parlourmaid when Charlotte was a little girl. She had married and had a numerous family, but all but one of them had moved away, several of the boys going into the Army or the Navy, and three of them being killed in the service of their country, and two of the three girls who had survived childhood marrying soldiers and following the drum. In the case of Carrie, all the way to India, and in that of Mabel, merely to the Peninsula with Wellington; but when her Jack had been killed at Badajos Mabel had taken up with a Scots Guardsman who on his retirement had elected to open a tavern in his native Edinburgh. So now there were only Betty and Roger Baker and their daughter Annie in the little country cottage. Old Roger was rather senile, but very little trouble. His only problem was a tendency to wander, so Betty Baker had a neighbour’s little boy come in to keep him company and lead him home again when he’d forgotten where he was. The little cottage was scrupulously clean, and Charlotte had no qualms about taking the children there. They received the usual rapturous welcome—though it was not so very long since Betty Baker had seen them—and were regaled with cider and Betty Baker’s special hot muffins. When the repast was over Georgey as usual had to go out and admire Bessy the cow and Peter Pig. The pig was a different pig every year but they always called him Peter. Meanwhile Annie was telling over the fate of her flock of geese. She had sold all but one this year: it had been a very successful year for her. And would Mrs Laidlaw like it? she asked, beaming her gap-toothed, apple-cheeked grin. ’Twere a bit of a runt but there were good eatin’ on ’un!

    “Yes!” cried Paul.

    Annie got up. “I’ll kill ’un right away, then.”

    “No, don’t do that,” said Charlotte hurriedly. “Will you not want it for your own Christmas dinner, Annie?”

    No: they was a-joinin’ up with the Binnses, this year, and Mrs Binns, she had two fat ducks, and Ma had said as how they would bring a shoulder of Peter as their share.

    After some argument Charlotte gave in and accepted the goose. But could it be put live into a basket? Annie agreed, for then it would be good and fresh for Christmas Day! Limply Charlotte let Annie and Paul between them stow the goose in its basket safely next to the coachman.

    Old Nanny Rose’s counter to the Baker muffins and cider was hot meat and tater pie, with a drop of her own elderberry wine for Mrs Laidlaw and “halfpenny punch” for the children. It was only a sort of ginger ale but as Paul and Georgey apparently still laboured under a long-standing delusion that it was alcoholic, Charlotte kindly did not disabuse them. The meat in the pie tasted suspiciously like pheasant, but Charlotte did not enquire: old Nanny Rose’s grandson was a bit of a rascal. And then, she and her dearest Jack were agreed that the Gaming Laws were so unjust to the common people! Nanny Rose had crocheted a beautifully fine shawl for Baby Prue: it was like lace.

    Charlotte gasped, her eyes filling with tears. “Nanny Rose, I can’t take this! Surely your own granddaughters—”

    Nanny Rose had made shawls for all on ’em, and she had been meaning for an age to give “Mrs Charlotte” a real nice one. In vain Charlotte murmured that she was still using the beautiful one Nanny Rose had made for Paul.

    “Don’t,” muttered Georgey as Charlotte wept over the shawl on the way back to the town, what time Paul stared out of the window scowling, his ears very red.

    Charlotte blew her nose. “Oh, Georgey! The poor old dear: it must have taken her months and months! Did you not see how crippled her hands are? She can hardly lift a cup!”

    Paul glared out of the window. “All the more reason for taking it, Mamma.”

    Charlotte gulped and sniffed. “Oh, that is very right, my dear! –Paul, my love,” she said, blowing her nose again: “you know how the Rector stands up in the Abbey on a Sunday and—and takes the service? Would you not like to do that some day?”

    “No,” he said tersely. There was a short pause. “I should not half like to kill the goose, though, Mamma! May I?”

    Charlotte winced. “Er—no. Cook will look after it, dear.”

    “I’ll watch, then,” he decided grimly.

    “So’ll I,” agreed Georgey at once.

    Their mother sighed. But there was yet hope, for Paul’s heart was clearly in the right place!

    Mr Ninian Dalrymple himself opened the front door of Borrowdale to them, all smiles. Warning them he should not tempt them with anything very much, for he knew they would have eaten splendidly with Nanny Rose and Betty Baker, he led the way into his sitting-room. “I expect a cup of lapsang would not come amiss, however!” he said gaily to Charlotte.

    Charlotte sat down thankfully. “It would be wonderful, thank you, Mr Ninian. Nanny Rose gave me an enormous helping of pie, I thought I should never get through it!”

    “We have got a goose,” announced Paul solemnly.

    “Er—really, Paul?”

    “A live one, in a basket. Annie Baker gave it to us, it was her last. It’s bit of a runt but there’s good eating on it,” Paul reported faithfully.

    Mr Ninian looked wildly at Charlotte.

    “Well, yes!” she said with a laugh. “I hope that Cook will know what to do with it!”

    Mr Ninian replied that he was sure that she would. On Charlotte’s asking after his mother he explained that as it was a very cold, windy day she was keeping to her bed. But feeling very well in herself and would like to see them.

    This was not usual, for Mrs Dalrymple most years had made an effort to be up and in the sitting-room when Charlotte and the children called. Charlotte could see out of the corner of her eye that Paul had quailed. Why it was that Horrible and Georgey looked upon a visit to Mrs Dalrymple in her room as almost a mystical experience, while Paul was terrified out of his wits at the mere idea she could not tell: but there it was. Oh, dear. There was nothing for it, however: she could not take Georgey up and leave Paul, for the Dalrymples would find it quite extraordinary. And she could not leave the both of them, for Georgey would kick up the most terrific fuss. So on Mr Ninian’s offering, once she had finished her tea, to take them up, Charlotte got up determinedly. With the expression on her face of a mother who not only was not prepared to listen to any argument but was totally unaware that there could be any question of argument in this instance. Paul came up very close but did not sink so far as to take her hand.

    Truly, there was nothing extraordinary about Mrs Dalrymple and her bedroom! The room was rather red, yes, and she was a big old woman, with strikingly large, pink cheeks, but... No. Neither mystical nor terrifying. Presumably you had to be under ten years of age to see it.

    Downstairs again, Georgey and Paul looked longingly at Mr Ninian.

    “Well, yes!” he said with a laugh. “If you would all care to?”

    They all accompanied him to admire those of his little dogs that were not already sitting neatly in the sitting-room. And in especial the puppy destined to be Georgey’s on Christmas morning and the other puppy, almost as nice, destined to be Cherry’s.

    “How will you get it to her?” asked Georgey earnestly, squatting over it.

    “I thought I would just drive out to Doubleday House, my dear, and present it to her.”

    “On Christmas Day?”

    “Er—well, the day before, I thought. Christmas Day is a day for families,” he murmured.

    “But it’s for Christmas!”  wailed Georgey.

    “Hush, dear,” said Charlotte hurriedly.

    “Oh, dear,” said Mr Ninian, looking at Charlotte with a comical grimace.

    “Er... take the Amorys into your confidence?” she said feebly.

    “Yes! Splendid! I shall write dear Mrs Colonel a note!” he said, rubbing his hands.

    “Good,” said Georgey with a deep sigh.

    “Georgey,” said Charlotte cautiously in the carriage heading back for Lymmond Square, “have you been—um—ordering Mr Ninian Dalrymple around?”

    “NO!” she cried angrily.

    Charlotte would not have taken a bet on the matter. For Georgey was very determined, if she was but little. And Mr Ninian was... biddable, was probably the best word. Oh, dear.

    After quite some time she said cautiously: “Georgey, my dear, exactly whose idea was it, to give Cherry one of Mr Ninian’s little pug-dogs?”

    Georgey pouted,

    “His, wasn’t it?” said Paul vaguely.

    “NO!” she shouted. “It was my idea, and what is wrong with that?”

    Charlotte bit her lip. “Well, the thing is, they are quite valuable dogs—”

    “No! Mamma, you do not know anything!” said Georgey with huge superiority. “Angela of Borrowdale’s are half-bred, we think their father was a King Charles. No-one would pay a groat for one of them!”

    “No,” agreed Paul.

    “I see,” said Charlotte limply.

    Georgey gave her a defiant look. She got out the slate and wrote on it.

    From her position opposite her Charlotte could see that what the slate now contained was three lines. The middle one-definitely started “7d and a Muf.” But…

    “Let me see, please, Georgey. –I am not going to rub it out!” she added quickly.

    With a wary look in her eye Georgey handed her mother the slate. It now read:

Fredy ows me 2d. If Mrs Hart give me a drink.

7d and a Muf. + share of Gus. + things to Et.

1 pupy at 2gn. 5x2gn = 10gn the liter. Pug Laidlaw.

    Charlotte’s eyes filled suddenly. She handed Georgey back the slate.

    Paul peered at it. “Pug Laidlaw? That is a really stupid name!”

    “It is NOT!”

    “Leave her alone, Paul. It is her puppy, she must call it what she likes,” said Charlotte in a stifled voice. She blew her nose, and smiled mistily. “When you have a pet, then it will be your turn!”

    “But I have not got a pet!” he wailed.

    “No,” said Charlotte with a little smile. “Well—um—name the goose, if you would like to, Paul.”

    “Goosey Gander Laidlaw,” suggested Georgey.

    “Pooh!” he retorted. He bent his brain to it. “Gustavus Goose Laidlaw,” he pronounced.

    “That is not half bad,” Georgey admitted reluctantly.

    “It is an excellent name,” said Charlotte briskly, blowing her nose and stowing her handkerchief away.

    “Would Cherry’s puppy be a Chalfont?” asked Georgey dubiously.

    “Well—um... Until she is married, I suppose,” said Charlotte weakly.

    “Then would it change its name?”

    “Um—if she wanted it to, yes,” said Charlotte, even more weakly.

    “Pug Amory,” said Georgey thoughtfully to herself.

    “Y—Um, dearest, Cherry will wish to name it herself.”

    “I know that!”

    Charlotte looked at her doubtfully.

    “Does that man like pugs?”

    Oh, dear. Charlotte had been wondering that, actually. Sir Noël had struck her as very nearly the last man on earth to welcome the introduction into his household of a bug-eyed, snuffling little creature like Mr Ninian’s darlings!

    “I am sure he does, Georgey,” she said feebly.

    “Mrs Amberley brought Diana II of Borrowdale back, because Mr Amberley didn’t like her,” reported Georgey mournfully.

    “Better than drowning her!” said Paul with a coarse laugh. Oh, why did little boys have to grow up into unfeeling monsters? He had sounded just like Freddy or Mendoza at their worst!

    “BE QUIET!” screamed Georgey, turning puce.

    “Yes, that will do, Paul. I’m ashamed of you,” said Charlotte severely.

    Paul lapsed into sulky silence. Georgey, still very red, lapsed into glaring silence. Charlotte could not remember precisely what had been the cause, last year, but that apart, it was just like last year.

    The houses in Lymmond Square were the last port of call. The Miss Careys were both in, and delighted to see Charlotte and the children, as they were every year. Miss Diddy had a tradition of her own to uphold, and she duly upheld it: a new muslin apron for Georgey, edged with fine crocheted lace from Miss Diddy’s own hand, and embroidered in the corner with a big “G.L.” This year’s was even prettier than last year’s. Georgey promised, beaming, to wear it for Christmas dinner. Charlotte smiled bravely and tried not to think what it would look like at the conclusion of the repast.

    Major-General Cadwallader was also at home and forced them to sit down and partake of his truly awful tea. Charlotte had never tasted tea as dreadful as Major-General Cadwallader’s. Goodness alone knew what he let his cook do to it. He thought that Paul might like a bayonet. Charlotte gasped. “Blunted, of course,” said the soldier stiffly. “But it is a real one. Dare say it has killed more than one Frog in its time.”

    Paul was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. The more so as it was clear Freddy and Mendoza must be green as grass over it.

    The Major-General then produced a small flat parcel. “Thought the little girl might like this.”

    Charlotte quailed. The Major-General knew nothing—less than nothing—about little girls. And Georgey was too young to disguise her feelings if she didn’t like it.

    Georgey’s face went very red and her eyes went very round and she just sat there, looking at it.

    Charlotte looked over her shoulder, and gasped. It was a miniature of a young woman’s face, but next to her face, in fact cuddled against it, was the face of a small pug puppy with a blue bow round its neck!

    The Major-General coughed. “Heard she was fond of ’em.”

    “Yes—but General, we cannot possibly accept, this must be a very valuable piece!” cried Charlotte. Georgey turned puce and hung onto it like grim death.

    “My Aunt Mary when young,” he said. “It has no sentimental value, Mrs Laidlaw, I cannot remember her. And I should like the little girl to have it.”

    Charlotte accepted huskily. “Georgey,” she said, gulping: “what do you say?”

    “Thank you, Major-General Cadwallader,” she breathed. “It is my best present ever, next to Pug Laidlaw!”

    Charlotte took a deep breath. She eyed her steadily. “You may give Major-General Cadwallader a kiss, Georgey.”

    Who was the more embarrassed by this procedure it would have been difficult to say. Both parties, however, retired from the field with honour. And the Laidlaws retreated in good order, the children clutching their presents tightly.

    “I know!” said Paul as they got into the carriage for the very last visit. “We can give him Gustavus Goose Laidlaw!”

    “Yes!” cried Georgey. “For a thank-you!”

    “Yes, but darlings, that dreadful cook of his will ruin it!” cried Charlotte.

    “Cook can cook it for him,” decided Georgey.

    “Um—well, he might think that was patronising, my dears.” They looked blank. “We’ll think about it. Perhaps he would like to come to a—a family dinner, with all of you children down,” said Charlotte, her voice audibly losing conviction as this sentence proceeded.

    “And eat the goose?” asked Paul hopefully.

    Charlotte nodded feebly. “Yes. Perhaps on New Year’s Eve?”

    “Yes!” he cried. “Huzza!”

    “Huzza!” squeaked Georgey.

    Charlotte smiled feebly…

    There was only the one call left to make. The carriage drew up outside a corner house. Old Mrs Hervey.

    “You are both coming in and there will be no arguments.”

    “Mamma, she has the nastiest seedy-cake in the world!” hissed Paul in agony.

    This was true. On the other hand her tea was not quite so bad as the Major-General’s. Grimly she led them in. The seedy-cake was all that its reputation said of it. So was the tea. So were the comfits that the tottery old lady pressed on Georgey and Paul. With more little papers of them for the other children. Never mind: she was a very old lady and her eyesight was very poor, and she loved to have the children come and visit.

    “Darlings, you were very good. And you need not eat those comfits,” said Charlotte as they got back into the carriage in order to arrive in state at their own front door.

    “She will ask us if we enjoyed them,” said Paul glumly.

    “Then you will have to lie,” returned Charlotte calmly.

    They looked at her in horror.

    “It is for a good cause. She would be hurt if she knew you did not eat them. And in any case, even if you did eat them, you would not enjoy them, would you? So it would still be a lie.”

    “That’s right!” agreed Paul, beaming. “Good, I’ll tell a lie.”

    “Yes. We’ll throw them away!” beamed Georgey. “I’ll tell a lie, too!” There was a pause. “Don’t tell Aunt Beresford, though,” she ordered the carriage at large.

    The carriage at large agreed that it would not tell Aunt Beresford of the Laidlaws’ intention to tell a social lie in order to spare old Mrs Hervey’s feelings.

    That evening Jack Laidlaw reported shakily, having tiptoed in to see the little ones in their beds, that Georgey had gone to sleep with the muff on one hand and the miniature clutched in the other: Charlotte nodded mistily and blew her nose. Considerately Jack did not report that Paul was asleep with the bayonet in his fist and that on the little table by his bed lay a new drawing, featuring a large white bird, couchant, with a huge bayonet sticking into its tummy.

    “Where are the twins and Mendoza, Jack, dearest? Are they not joining us for dinner?”

    Jack coughed. “Er, well, it was like this, my love—”

    Jack had let the boys accept an invitation to dine at Lady Benedict’s.

    “Jack! Really! As if yesterday was not enough!”

    “What is wrong with that? You like her.”

    Charlotte groaned.

    Jack perceived she was tired. “Drink that up, you can have a second, and no arguments,” he said briskly.

    Obediently she drank her sherry up. However, as he handed her her refilled glass she sighed heavily, and blew her nose.

    “Darling, the cold is not worsening, is it?”

    “No, no, I am quite better. –Oh, dear,” said Charlotte, surreptitiously wiping a tear away.

    Since the boys were not in the room to be embarrassed by evidences of affection between their elderly parents, Mr Laidlaw knelt by her chair and took her hands in his. “What is it, my love?”

    “Nothing. It’s just—well, Mrs Hart was just as usual, you know, very bright, but I fancied her cheeks looked thinner. And Mrs Dalrymple had not come down at all, today, and the last time Horrible and Georgey were there, she had not, either. And Nanny Rose’s hands are so bad!” she gasped, bursting into tears.

    “Mm.” Jack knelt up and pulled her against him. He did not venture any platitudes, or even suggest that she would feel better after her dinner, just hugged her tight.

    Over dinner she was terrifically merry and first recounted every detail of who had given the children what and then told him every minute detail of both Cherry Chalfont’s and Sir Noël Amory’s appearance and manner, speculating at length on whether the fashionable baronet would countenance a pug-dog in his house; but after nigh on eighteen years of marriage Jack Laidlaw did not bother to reflect on the oddness of the female temperament. Besides, it was the same every year, the day she took her little boxes round.