CHAPTER XXVI
It was the next day, and quite an ideal one for late September, though that is perhaps the least capricious month of all the year. Still Mrs Poynter hardly knew what to do with her guests. When one has been playing tennis steadily from the 1st of May to the 19th of September, even that best of games begins to pall a little. And people came so early in September—at half-past three some of them, because the daylight faded so soon. It was quite a relief to her when Dicky suggested the houses. But, unfortunately, the suggestion fell flat. Just a few went, but the majority remained.
Mrs. Greatorex, indeed, was too comfortable to stir, and Elfrida was too amused. She had Lord Ambert leaning over her on the left, and she had enticed the curate into an argument on her right. She felt perfectly happy. She was never happier than when she was annoying Ambert, who was to be her husband in a month or so.
As for Mr. Browne, though he had suggested the grapes, he made no movement in their direction. He, too, was quite in his element. He was teasing the children with all his might.
Mrs. Poynter, if she were ever jealous of other people's possessions, at all events had no occasion to be jealous with them about their children. Her own were perfect—little creatures of delight! Their manners, however, were not their strong point.
Vera, the youngest, sat on Mr. Browne's right knee, and Henry on his left. They held a book in their hands. It contained the poems of Dr. Watts. Their mother, who was one of the most thoughtless people in the world, was evidently determined that they should think, with a vengeance.
Dicky could see, however, that the little maiden on his knee hated the book.
"Go on, read us something," said Henry.
"Don't," said Vera, "it's a pig of a book."
"Hold your tongue, Vera," said Henry, whose education was not altogether completed. He nudged Dicky. "Go on," said he, and Dicky began:—