That Unfortunate Marriage, Vol. 3

The following morning Mrs. Dormer-Smith was in a flutter of excitement. She left her bedroom fully an hour earlier than was her wont. But before she did so she sent a message begging May not to absent herself from the house. For even in this wintry season May was in the habit of walking out every morning with the children whenever there came a gleam of good weather. Smithson, Mrs. Dormer-Smith's maid, who was charged with the message, volunteered to add, with a glance at May's plain morning frock—
Mr. Bragg is expected, I believe, Miss.
Very well, Smithson. Tell my aunt I will not go out without her permission.
Smithson still lingered. Shall I—would you like me to lay out your grey merino, Miss? she asked.
Oh no, thank you! answered May, opening her eyes in surprise. If I do go out, it will only be to take a turn in the square with the children. This frock will do quite well.
Smithson retired. And then Harold, who was engaged in a somewhat languid struggle with a French verb, looked up savagely, and said—
I hate Mr. Bragg.
Wilfred, seated at the table with a big book before him, which was supposed to convey useful knowledge by means of coloured illustrations, immediately echoed—
I hate Mr. Bragg.
Hush, hush! That will never do! said May. Little boys musn't hate anybody. Besides, Mr. Bragg is a very good, kind man. Why should you dislike him?
Because he's going to take you away, answered Harold slowly.
Nonsense! I dare say Mr. Bragg will not ask to see me at all. And if he does, I shall not be away above a few minutes.