V
Hilda and her son were in the dining-room, in which the table, set for a special meal--half-tea, half-supper--made a glittering oblong of white. On the table, among blue-and-white plates, and knives and forks, lay some of George's shabby school-books. In most branches of knowledge George privately knew that he could instruct his parents--especially his mother. Nevertheless that beloved outgrown creature was still occasionally useful at home-lessons, as for instance in "poetry." George, disdainful, had to learn some verses each week, and now his mother held a book entitled "The Poetry Reciter," while George mumbled with imperfect verbal accuracy the apparently immortal lines:
Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase,
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace.
His mother, however, scarcely regarded the book. She knew the poem by heart, and had indeed recited it to George, who, though he was much impressed by her fire, could not by any means have been persuaded to imitate the freedom of her delivery. His elocution to-night was unusually bad, for the reason that he had been pleasurably excited by the immense news of Auntie Hamps's illness. Not that he had any grudge against Auntie Hamps! His pleasure would have been as keen in the grave illness of any other important family connection, save his mother and Edwin. Such notable events gave a sensational interest to domestic life which domestic life as a rule lacked.
Then, through the half-open door of the dining-room came the sound of Edwin's latch-key in the front-door.
"There's uncle!" exclaimed George, and jumped up.
Hilda stopped him.
"Put your books together," said she. "You know uncle likes to go up to the bathroom before he does anything!"
It was a fact that the precisian hated even to be greeted, on his return home in the evening, until he came downstairs from the bathroom.
Hilda herself collected the books and put them on the sideboard.