"And so this is the family?" cried Conrad, trying to sound enthusiastic. "How do you do? And will you say 'how do you do' to me, my little man?"
Three limp hands flopped to him in turn, and he stood contemplating the group, while the lady cooed silly questions to them, and elicited dull, constrained replies. They were not attractive children; they were indeed singularly uninteresting children—even for other people's, whose virtues seldom strike us vividly. To Conrad, who failed to allow sufficiently for their shyness, they appeared stupidity personified. "Yes," and "No," they answered; and their eyes were round, and their mouths ajar. Like all children, from the lower to the middle classes inclusive, they proclaimed instantaneously the social stratum of their parents. With a monosyllable a child will do this. It is by no means impossible for a man to exchange remarks with a girl from a show-room, and at the end of five minutes to be still uncertain to what class she belongs. But when the intrusive little cub in the sailor suit romps up to her, he betrays the listless beauty's entourage with the first slovenly words he drops.
"Have your cousins any children, Mr. Warrener?"
"Yes," he said, "oh yes, they have three or four each." He was speculating what individuality lay concealed behind the vacant fronts. Their mother had been no older than the eldest when he was sick with romance for her—oh, positively "romance," although its expression had been ludicrous in that period. Was it possible that these meaningless little girls also had precocity and sweethearts? Appalling thought—had Mary been so unpleasant? Had he idealised a dirty mouth?
"I should like to see them. I wish Nina and—er—'Gina would come over one morning to lunch." Her tone was painfully eager. "Or I might look them up. Do you know their 'days'?"
"No," he murmured, "I can't say I do. I——"
"Perhaps they'll come with you next time?"
"I hope you'll see them sooner; it's more than likely I go back to Paris in a day or two—I only left a few weeks ago. I may remain there through the year."
"Oh, really?" she exclaimed. "Then you have no business in London? Mary," she broke off impatiently, "what is it? What is Ferdie fidgeting about for—what does he want?"
"Jam, ma," said the plainer of the girls in a whisper.