"We were young once ourselves, Mr. Fawcus." The imminent departure of Mary made "Uncle William" sound ridiculous now, and Mrs. Fawcus went back to her time-honored mode of address.
"Many years ago, my love," he said, shaking his head. "And I'm afraid that you've had much to put up with since then. I have wasted my opportunities sadly. I ought to have been in a superb position by now."
"I'm sure I don't wish for anything better than what we've got," Mrs. Fawcus declared, trying to sound cheerful. "I'm sure as basements go, one couldn't wish for a nicer basement. It's so lovely and light for one thing."
"If I were to die, my dear, I'm convinced that Holland and Brown would offer you the refusal of my post."
"Oh, don't talk like that, Mr. Fawcus. Die? What ever next, to be sure?"
"Tempora, mutantur nos et mutamur in illis. It won't be the same without our Mary."
"You're going to make me cry if you keep on keeping on so." Mrs. Fawcus uttered a few warning sniffles.
At that moment she, who by her reception of the news had added the last bitterness to the separation, came dancing back from her dolls to whom as a great secret she had been telling about her departure.
"Do you think my granny will be like a fairy god-mother?" Mary asked. "Because if she is I shall ask her to wave her magic wand and bring my dear Uncle William and my dear Aunt Lucy to France."