“No, oh, no! it’s nothing at all, dear. Perhaps the hay was going to make me sneeze. What was I saying?”
“About the god—”
“Oh, yes! I remember! (Ka-choo!) We will take the Irish cousins and the Scotch cousins and go all together to see the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey. We’ll go to Bushey Park and see the chestnuts in bloom, and will dine at Number 10, Dovermarle Street—”
“I shall not go there, Billy,” said Himself. “It was at Number 10, Dovermarle Street that your mother told me she wouldn’t marry me; or at least that she’d have to do a lot of thinking before she’d say Yes; so she left London and went to North Malvern.”
“Couldn’t she think in London?” (This was Billy.)
“Didn’t she always want to be married to you?” (This was Francie.)
“Not always.”
“Didn’t she like us?” (Still Francie.)
“You were never mentioned,—not one of you!”
“That seems rather queer!” remarked Billy, giving me a reproachful look.