"You haven't got much to say, Robert," his father remarked, when the taxi set off again.
"I know," said Robert, gruffly. Among other things, he resented his best clothes on a week-day.
"What do you think of London?"
"I don't know," said Robert.
His eyes never left the window of the taxi.
Then they visited the theatre—a very fatiguing enterprise, and also, for Edward Henry, a very nervous one. He was as awkward in displaying that inchoate theatre as a newly-made father with his first-born. Pride and shame fought for dominion over him. Nellie was full of laudations. Ralph enjoyed the ladders.
"I say," said Nellie, apprehensive for Maisie, on the pavement, "this child's exhausted already. How big's this park of yours? Because neither nurse nor I can carry her very far."
"We'll buy a pram," said Edward Henry. He was staring at a newspaper placard which said: "Isabel Joy on the war-path again. Will she win?"
"But—"
"Oh, yes. We'll buy a pram! Driver—"