It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amusements are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time. Whether such indulgence and realisation of youthful dreams have a good effect on the character in later life is a different question. At any rate, to go to tea with the Pickerings was the dream of all their young friends and gave them much to think of and long for, while it gave to the young host and hostess immense gratification and material pride.
“My birthday? Oh, I don’t know—oh, it’s on the twenty-seventh May,” said Clifford, who was far more shy of the young lady than of her mother.
“Fancy! Just fancy! and mine’s on the twenty-eighth June! Isn’t it funny!”
Cissy was surprised at almost everything. It added to her popularity.
“Not particularly.”
“Oh, Clifford!”
“You must be born some time or other, I mean,” he said, wriggling his head and twisting his feet, as he did when he felt embarrassed. Miss Pickering made him feel embarrassed because she asked so many direct personal questions, seemed so interested and surprised at everything, and volunteered so much private—but, it seemed to him, unimportant—information.
“My name is Cecilia Muriel Margaret Pickering. My birthday’s on the twenty-eighth June, and Eustace’s birthday is on the fifteenth February. Isn’t it funny?”
“No, not at all,” said Clifford.
“His name is Eustace Henry John Pickering, after father. At least John’s after father and Henry’s after grandpapa—I mean, mummy’s father, you know. Eustace is just a fancy name—a name mummy thought of. Do you like it?”