Part 26 (1/2)

”I don't think I've any views. R. L. S. summed up the whole duty of children ages ago, and it's our business to see that they do it--that's all. Don't you remember:

A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table: At least as far as he is able.

It's no use to expect too much, is it?”

”If you expect to get the second injunction carried out in the case of your niece you're a most optimistic person. For three weeks now I've been perambulating Kensington Gardens with those children, and I have never in the whole course of my life entered into conversation with so many strangers, and it's always she who begins it. Then complications arise and I have to intervene. I don't mind policemen and park-keepers and roadmen, but I rather draw the line at idly benevolent old gentlemen who join our party and seem to spend the whole morning with us....”

”But, Meg, that never happens when I'm with you. I confess I've left you to it this last week....”

”And what am I here for except to be left to it--I don't mean that anyone's rude or pus.h.i.+ng--but Miss Tancred _is_ so friendly, and I'm not dignified and awe-inspiring like you, you great big Jan; and the poor men are encouraged, directly and deliberately encouraged, by your niece.

I never knew a child with such a continual flow of conversation.”

”Poor Meg,” said Jan, ”you won't have much more of it. Little Fay _is_ a handful, I confess; but I always feel it must be a bit hard to be hushed continually--and just when one feels particularly bright and sparkling, to have all one's remarks cut short....”

”You needn't pity that child. No amount of hus.h.i.+ng has any effect; you might just as well hush a blackbird or a thrush. Don't look so worried, Jan. Did Mr. Ledgard say anything about Hugo in that letter to-night?”

”Only that he was known to have left Karachi in a small steamer going round the coast, but after that nothing more. Mr. Ledgard has a friend in the Police, and even there they've heard nothing lately. I think myself the Indian Government _wants_ to lose sight of Hugo. He's inconvenient and disgraceful, and they'd like him blotted out as soon as possible.”

”What else does Mr. Ledgard say? He seems to write good long letters.”

”He is coming home at the end of April for six months.”

”Oh ... then we shall see him, I suppose?”

”I hope so.”

Meg looked keenly at Jan, who was staring into the fire, her eyes soft and dreamy; and almost as if she was unconsciously thinking aloud, she said: ”I do hope, if Hugo chooses to turn up, he'll wait till Mr.

Ledgard is back in England.”

”You think he could manage him?”

”I know he could.”

”Then let us pray for his return,” said Meg.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven.

”Bed-time,” said Meg, ”but I must have just one cigarette first. That's what's so lovely about being with you, Jan--you don't mind. Of course I'd never do it before the children.”

”You wouldn't shock them if you did. Fay smoked constantly.”

Meg lit her cigarette and clearly showed her real enjoyment. She had taken to it first when she was about fifteen, as she found it helped her to feel less hungry. Now it had become as much a necessity to her as to many men, and the long abstinence of term-time had always been a penance.

She made some good rings, and, leaning forward to look through them at Jan, said: ”By the way, I must just tell you that for the last three afternoons we've met that Captain Middleton in the Gardens.”

”Well?”

”And he talks everlastingly about his dog--that William Bloomsbury creature. I know _all_ the points of a bull-terrier now--'Well-set head gradually tapering to muzzle, which is very powerful and well-filled up in front of the eyes. Nose large and black. Teeth dead-level and big'

... oh! and reams more, every bit of him accurately described.”