"I was wondering," Mary said. "It's odd, isn't it, dear, that neither of them ever seems to bother at all about us? You'd think when Muriel was going back to school next week that she'd want to spend some of her time with her father and mother. She does give you a little of it; but I hardly see her between breakfast and dinner."
"Young, you know. She's young," the father apologized. "We must try to remember that. You'd think that Geoffrey would be glad to play a round with me; but if he can dodge it, he will. I saw a bit of him last week, because there was a fellow staying at the hotel who offered to give me some advice about the proper allowance to make him at Oxford when he goes up in October. I can't help feeling that two hundred and fifty pounds a year is enough. But this fellow says, 'No, you can't do on less than three hundred pounds at a college like St. Mary's.' Well, I suppose I shall have to give it to him."
"Yes," Mary sighed, "children are strange. They seem quite suddenly not to belong to one, and to be almost complete strangers. Thank heaven, Richard at any rate has never learnt to do without me entirely."
"Ah, Richard!" her husband laughed. "But we were discussing ordinary boys and girls, common or garden boys and girls, not paragons. Though, by George, I've no right to tease you about him, for he is a fine lad. There's no doubt about that. Well, he'll be here to-morrow. Yet not for long, I'm afraid. You mark my words, he'll be gazetted almost at once. They've a good many losses to make up in South Africa."
"Jemmie, don't! It's too horrible to think of."
"Duty, my dear," said the father sternly. "You must be glad in your heart that Richard is going to do his duty. We shall be proud of him if he gets out there."
"I should be just as proud of him at home," said the mother.
Further discussion of Richard was interrupted by the arrival of Geoffrey and Muriel, who immediately sat down to tea and exclaimed at the coldness of the scones.
"Did you expect us to wait any longer?" their mother asked. "It's half-past five, dear children."
"Sorry," muttered Geoffrey, who was a plump youth, but good-looking in a fair florid style. He greatly resembled his father at the same age; and though to hear Jemmie talk about his youth now was to conjure up a half-heroic figure of mythical prowess and virtue, it is probable that the son equally resembled in character his father at the same age. Muriel, who was fifteen, did not resemble either of her parents much, although in figure, if the figure of a girl of fifteen may be granted the name, she seemed likely to take after her father. She was very fair, round-faced and blue-eyed, reputed clever, an admirable athlete, and immensely popular at school. Her mother never felt really at ease with Muriel, though she never could satisfactorily explain to herself why this should be so; it seemed absurd to allow herself to bow embarrassed before that pitiless judgment of youth; but bow she did, and the consciousness of her position often made her irritable. Not that any display of irritation affected Muriel, who would merely stare at her mother, slightly knitting the fair brows above those eyes of porcelain blue.