“My dear Ethel,” cried Marion, “if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don’t see what business of ours it is to interfere.”
“Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte.
But Marion wouldn’t be stopped. “No, mother, you spoil father, and it’s not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He’s very naughty.” She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it was only “Jam, please, father”—it rang out as though she were on the stage.
“Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again.
“I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.”
“He said—” began Charlotte.
But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.
“There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don’t you agree?”
“Give it to me, love,” said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. “Very sweet!” she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. “But I shouldn’t have the train.”
“Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the train’s the whole point.”