“I’ll come too, if you like,” suggested Dick, whose conception of wit was rather elemental.
“Don’t be foolish, Dick,” said his mother, who actually enjoyed his jokes because they showed his frequent moods of sullen discontent had lifted for the time being.
Then they all went out and returned in five minutes, Norah’s nose being conspicuously white.
“You see we’ve used all the luxuries you provided,” she said.
Andy gave an involuntary chuckle, for the coating of coarse, white violet powder had such an odd effect on her little nose, contrasted with her delicate face. Then all the others began to laugh too—Mrs. Stamford because the rest did, and she wished to be a sort of jolly-good-fellow with her son’s friends. It was really almost grotesque to see this woman run counter to every instinct but that of mother-love in order to please her boy—at least it would have been grotesque if it had not been almost tragic.
But a violent irritation was produced in her by the effort, all the same, and she turned sharply to Bill Atterton.
“When do you start work?”
“In October. At least I’m supposed to be reading with old Banks and Bardswell now, but I go up to Cambridge in October.”
“Hum,” said Mrs. Stamford. “Well, it’s time you did. You are getting too stout. Face of fourteen and figure of forty.”
The Atterton girls laughed and took it all in good part—they were so used to shafts of that kind flying about the family—but it hit Bill on his most tender spot.