“And we borrowed a baby,” said Babie. “Mrs. Jones, our old groom’s wife, who lives in the Mews, was only too happy to bring it, and when it was shy, it clung beautifully.”
“Then the helmet.”
“That was out of the British Museum.”
“Has Grinstead seen it?”
“No, I kept it for my own public first.”
“What will you do with it? Put it into the Royal Academy?”
“No, it is not big enough. I thought of offering it to the Works that used to take my things in the old Folly days. They might do it in terra cotta, or Parian.”
“Too good for a toy material like that,” said Jock. “Get some good opinion before you part with it, mother. I wish we could keep it. I’m proud of my Mother Carey.”
Allen, who came home next, only sighed at the cruel necessity of selling such a work. He was in deplorable spirits, for Gilbert Gould was superintending the refitting of a beautiful steam yacht, in which Miss Menella meant to sail to the West Indies, with her uncle and aunt.
“I knew she would! I knew she would,” softly said Babie.