“And maple-framed engravings of the Queen,
The Houses of Parliament, the Plains of Heaven,
And of a blunt-nosed woodman’s flat return.”
There were two books—last December’s Bradshaw, and an odd volume of Plumridge’s Commentary on Thessalonians. There were—but I cannot dwell longer on this painful picture. It was indeed, as Jane said, very different.
“Let’s have a palaver,” said Anthea again.
“What about?” said Cyril, yawning.
“There’s nothing to have anything about,” said Robert kicking the leg of the table miserably.
“I don’t want to play,” said Jane, and her tone was grumpy.
Anthea tried very hard not to be cross. She succeeded.
“Look here,” she said, “don’t think I want to be preachy or a beast in any way, but I want to what Father calls define the situation. Do you agree?”
“Fire ahead,” said Cyril without enthusiasm.
“Well then. We all know the reason we’re staying here is because Nurse couldn’t leave her house on account of the poor learned gentleman on the top-floor. And there was no one else Father could entrust to take care of us—and you know it’s taken a lot of money, Mother’s going to Madeira to be made well.”