“Yes?”
“She said—”
“Yes, she said?”
“She said, ‘I must be patient. I must put up with the mother God has sent me.’”
She lunches down-stairs on Sundays. We have her with us once a week to give her the opportunity of studying manners and behaviour. Milson had dropped in, and we were discussing politics. I was interested, and, pushing my plate aside, leant forward with my elbows on the table. Dorothea has a habit of talking to herself in a high-pitched whisper capable of being heard above an Adelphi love scene. I heard her say—
“I must sit up straight. I mustn’t sprawl with my elbows on the table. It is only common, vulgar people behave that way.”
I looked across at her; she was sitting most correctly, and appeared to be contemplating something a thousand miles away. We had all of us been lounging! We sat up stiffly, and conversation flagged.
Of course we made a joke of it after the child was gone. But somehow it didn’t seem to be our joke.
I wish I could recollect my childhood. I should so like to know if children are as simple as they can look.