‘Mother is forty,’ Amy says in a low voice.
‘I thought she was almost more than forty,’ Cosmo says in a still lower voice.
Amy shudders. ‘Don’t be so ungenerous, Cosmo.’ But she has to add. ‘Of course we must be prepared to see her look older.’
‘Why?’
‘She will be rather yellow, coming from India, you know. They will both be a little yellow.’
They exchange forlorn glances, but Cosmo says manfully, ‘We shan’t be any the less fond of them for that, Amy.’
‘No, indeed.’
They clasp hands on it, and Cosmo has an inspiration.
‘Do you think we should have these yellow flowers in the room? They might feel—eh?’
‘How thoughtful of you, dear. I shall remove them at once. After all, Cosmo, we seem to know a good deal about them; and then we know some other things by heredity.’