She showed me up then to the sitting-room where was George’s writing table and the pair of old brass candlesticks. She pointed to the table.
“’E made it ’imself,” she said, not meaning it in explanation; but it did explain the queer shape. “’E made it out of an old box and I covered it with felt. Ain’t it splendid?”
I agreed with my whole heart. Everything was splendid. The whole room might have been made out of an old box. And yet I could see what a joy it was to her. There was her acquired taste in evidence everywhere, but except for my poor pair of candlesticks, everything was imitation. It made no matter. She thought they were really old and liked them immeasurably better than the things I had collected with such care at home.
“Could anything be nicer than this?” said I with real enthusiasm.
“I don’t believe it could, sir,” said she.
And then, in little half-amused, half-curious, half-frightened whispers, she told me how they were going to call the baby after me.
“Supposing it’s a girl,” said I.
No—they had not reckoned on that. When you make up your mind properly to a boy—a boy it is up to the last moment. After that, you forget how you made up your mind, you are so wildly delighted that it is alive at all.
I walked across to the window.
“So you’re radiantly happy,” I said.