“You ought to know. I understand that a certain young lady, not a hundred miles away from where we are now, asked to be sent to school, so that she might grow very learned. Isn’t that so?”
“I should like to go to school,” faltered Lydia.
“Very natural,” said Mr. Almond indulgently. “Companions of your own age attract you, no doubt. What would childhood be without other children, eh, George? You remember?”
“I was not so well provided as you were, Monty,” said Uncle George rather resentfully.
“Indeed, no. Are you aware, young lady, that I was one of a family of fifteen?”
Aunt Beryl made a clicking sound with her tongue.
“Yes, Miss Raymond, fifteen. My father and mother were old-fashioned people, and held that each child carried a blessing with it. Three died in infancy, and a young brother was lost at sea. Otherwise I’m thankful to say that we are all spared to this day.”
“Fancy!” said Aunt Beryl in a flat voice.
“Fifteen children,” repeated the grey-bearded clerk, “and my mother kept her figure to the last day of her life. A lesson to the young wives of to-day, I often think.”
“Your bedtime, Lydia,” said Aunt Beryl briskly. “Go upstairs now and I’ll come and put the light out.”