“They look as though they were hiding something,” he said.
“They’re having fun,” Phyllis said. “They always do; grown-ups have a wonderful time.”
“Come on,”—Martin remembered that he was the host—“the ice cream will get cold.” This was what Daddy always said.
Bunny felt a renewed pride as she climbed into her place at the end of the table. Martin looked solemnly handsome in his Eton collar across the shining spread of candlelight and cloth and pink peppermints. The tinted glass panes above the sideboard were cheerful squares of colour against the wet grey afternoon. She wriggled a little, to reëstablish herself on the slippery chair.
“Our family is getting very grown up,” she said happily. “We’re not going to have a nursery any more. It’s going to be the guest room.”
“I don’t think I want to be grown up,” said Alec suddenly. “It’s silly. I don’t believe they have a good time at all.”
This was a disconcerting opinion. Alec, as an older cousin, held a position of some prestige. A faint dismay was apparent in the gazes that crossed rapidly in the sparkling waxlight.
“I think we ought to make up our minds about it,” Martin said gravely. “Pretty soon, the way things are going, we will be, then it’ll be too late.”
“Silly, what can you do?” said Phyllis. “Of course we’ve got to grow up, everyone does, unless they die.” Her tone was clear and positive, but also there was a just discernible accent of inquiry. She had not yet quite lost her childhood birthright of wonder, of belief that almost anything is possible.
“We’d have to Take Steps,” cried Alec, unconsciously quoting the enemy. “We could just decide among ourselves that we simply wouldn’t, and if we all lived together we could go on just like we are.”