Jasper began to wriggle worse than ever, and, having first cast a furtive glance at his grandmother and aunts, said shrilly, “I dreamt of Mummie last night ... and she had ... she had ... such a funny nose....” and his voice tailed off in a little giggle, half proud, half guilty.
“Jasper!” exclaimed simultaneously the Doña, Teresa, Concha, and Anna, in tones of shocked reproval.
“Dear little man!” murmured Jollypot.
Shortly after her death, Jasper had genuinely dreamt that his mother was standing by his bed, and, on telling it next morning, had produced a most gratifying impression; but so often had he tried since to produce the same impression in the same way that to say he had “dreamt of Mummie” had become a recognised form of “naughtiness”; and, as one could attract attention by naughtiness as well as by pathos, he continued at intervals to announce that he had “dreamt of Mummie.”
“Concha, Teresa, Jollypot! We must hurry. The car will soon be here to take us to mass,” said the Doña.
Concha hesitated a moment—Teresa’s eye was on her—then said to herself, “I’ll not be downed by her,” and aloud, “I don’t think I’m coming this morning, Doña.”
The Doña raised her eyebrows; Teresa’s face was sphinx-like.
At that moment in walked David—looking a little embarrassed.
He gravely faced the friendly sallies; and then he said, with an evident effort: