Part 20 (1/2)
But H.O. may be right.
”I wonder if they often play it in Rome,” H.O. went on. ”That post-card he sent us with the Colly-whats-its-name-on--you know, the round place with the arches. They could have ripping games there----”
”It's not much fun with only two,” said d.i.c.ky.
”Besides,” Dora said, ”when people are first married they always sit in balconies and look at the moon, or else at each other's eyes.”
”They ought to know what their eyes look like by this time,” said d.i.c.ky.
”I believe they sit and write poetry about their eyes all day, and only look at each other when they can't think of the rhymes,” said Noel.
”I don't believe she knows how, but I'm certain they read aloud to each other out of the poetry books we gave them for wedding presents,” Alice said.
”It would be beastly ungrateful if they didn't, especially with their backs all covered with gold like they are,” said H.O.
”About those books,” said Oswald slowly, now for the first time joining in what was being said; ”of course it was jolly decent of Father to get such ripping presents for us to give them. But I've sometimes wished we'd given Albert's uncle a really truly present that we'd chosen ourselves and bought with our own c.h.i.n.k.”
”I wish we could have _done_ something for him,” Noel said; ”I'd have killed a dragon for him as soon as look at it, and Mrs. Albert's uncle could have been the Princess, and I would have let him have her.”
”Yes,” said d.i.c.ky; ”and we just gave rotten books. But it's no use grizzling over it now. It's all over, and he won't get married again while she's alive.”
This was true, for we live in England which is a morganatic empire where more than one wife at a time is not allowed. In the glorious East he might have married again and again and we could have made it all right about the wedding present.
”I wish he was a Turk for some things,” said Oswald, and explained why.
”I don't think _she_ would like it,” said Dora.
Oswald explained that if he was a Turk, she would be a Turquoise (I think that is the feminine Turk), and so would be used to lots of wives and be lonely without them.
And just then . . . You know what they say about talking of angels, and hearing their wings? (There is another way of saying this, but it is not polite, as the present author knows.)
Well, just then the postman came, and of course we rushed out, and among Father's dull letters we found one addressed to ”The Bastables Junior.”
It had an Italian stamp--not at all a rare one, and it was a poor specimen too, and the post-mark was _Roma_.
That is what the Italians have got into the habit of calling Rome. I have been told that they put the ”a” instead of the ”e” because they like to open their mouths as much as possible in that sunny and agreeable climate.
The letter was jolly--it was just like hearing him talk (I mean reading, not hearing, of course, but reading him talk is not grammar, and if you can't be both sensible and grammarical, it is better to be senseless).
”Well, kiddies,” it began, and it went on to tell us about things he had seen, not dull pictures and beastly old buildings, but amusing incidents of comic nature. The Italians must be extreme Jugginses for the kind of things he described to be of such everyday occurring. Indeed, Oswald could hardly believe about the soda-water label that the Italian translated for the English traveller so that it said, ”To distrust of the Mineral Waters too fountain-like foaming. They spread the shape.”
Near the end of the letter came this:--
”You remember the chapter of 'The Golden Gondola' that I wrote for the _People's Pageant_ just before I had the honour to lead to the altar, &c. I mean the one that ends in the subterranean pa.s.sage, with Geraldine's hair down, and her last hope gone, and the three villains stealing upon her with Venetian subtlety in their hearts and Toledo daggers (specially imported) in their garters? I didn't care much for it myself, you remember. I think I must have been thinking of other things when I wrote it. But you, I recollect, consoled me by refusing to regard it as other than 'ripping.' 'Clinking' was, as I recall it, Oswald's consolatory epithet. You'll weep with me, I feel confident, when you hear that my Editor does not share your sentiments. He writes me that it is not up to my usual form. He fears that the public, &c., and he trusts that in the next chapter, &c. Let us hope that the public will, in this matter, take your views, and not his. Oh! for a really discerning public, just like you--you amiable critics! Albert's new aunt is leaning over my shoulder. I can't break her of the distracting habit.
How on earth am I ever to write another line? Greetings to all from
”ALBERT'S UNCLE AND AUNT.
”PS.--She insists on having her name put to this, but of course she didn't write it. I am trying to teach her to spell.”