“Come on, Henry, my boy, time to begin,” said his father.
Henry, because he was the youngest, stepped forward, his present in his hand. His parcel was very ill-tied and the paper was creased and badly folded. He was greatly ashamed as he laid it upon the table. Blushing, he made his little speech, his lips together, speaking like an awkward schoolboy. “We’re all very glad, Grandfather, that we’re all—most of us—here to—to congratulate you on your birthday. We hope that you’re enjoying your birthday and that—that there’ll be lots more for you to enjoy.”
“Bravo, Henry,” came from the back of the room. Henry stepped back still blushing. Then Grandfather Trenchard, with trembling hands, slowly undid the parcel and revealed a purple leather blotting-book with silver edges.
“Thank you, my boy—very good of you. Thank you.”
Then came Katherine. Katherine was neither very tall nor very short, neither fat nor thin. She had some of the grave placidity of her mother and, in her eyes and mouth, some of the humour of her father. She moved quietly and easily, very self-possessed; she bore herself as though she had many more important things to think about than anything that concerned herself. Her hair and her eyes were dark brown, and now as she went with her present, her smile was as quiet and unself-conscious as everything else about her.
“Dear Grandfather,” she said, “I wish you many, many happy returns—” and then she stepped back. Her present was an old gold snuff-box.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “Very charming. Thank you, my dear.”
Then came Aunt Aggie, her eyes nervous and a little resentful as though she had been treated rather hardly but was making the best of difficult circumstances. “I’m afraid you won’t like this, Father,” she said. “I felt that you wouldn’t when I got it. But I did my best. It’s a silly thing to give you, I’m afraid.”
She watched as the old man, very slowly, undid the parcel. She had given him a china ink-stand. It had been as though she had said: “Anything more foolish than to give an old man who ought to be thinking about the grave a china ink-stand I can’t imagine.”
Perhaps her father had felt something of this in her voice—he answered her a little sharply——