He sat down on the hearth-rug in front of her chair, and looked round the room.
‘This is the pleasantest club I know,’ he said. ‘And where’s the president?’
Alice guessed what he meant in a moment.
‘I don’t think mother is in yet,’ she said. ‘We won’t wait tea for her. Buns? There they are. And it’s two lumps of sugar, isn’t it? And how are you?’
‘Better,’ he said, ‘better already. Poor parson has been lonely without his dear kind Helper. But now he’s got her again.’
Alice gave a little quiver of delight, and the cup she handed him rocked on its saucer.
‘But poor parson’s going to be lonely again, isn’t he?’ he went on. ‘Didn’t ickle bird tell him that Helper was going to spread wings and fly away to Brighton for a fortnight? He mustn’t be selfish, mustn’t poor parson, but only be glad to think of Helper sitting in the sun, and drinking in life and health again.’
Alice wished that Julia Fyson could hear him say that. (Julia Fyson probably would have if she had had the influenza too, but that benumbing possibility did not enter Alice’s head.) He had called her Helper before, but the oftener he called her that the better.
‘And now Helper is going to ask questions,’ she said, formally adopting the name. ‘She wants to know if poor parson has been good, and not been overworking himself.’
He turned to her with an air of childlike frankness.