"But this is the age of children, remember, the golden age. Before they were kept in the background, now——"
"They are never off the foreground," said Dimbie gloomily. "They are in the drawing-room monopolising the entire attention of the guests. If the guests don't want 'em the mothers are pained. You are a heartless brute, selfish and self-centred. It never seems to strike them they are the ones who are self-centred."
"But that is not the poor children's fault," I said. "Children are dears when they are properly trained."
"No, perhaps not. The children might be jolly, simple, unself-conscious little beggars if they got the chance, but they don't. As it is, most of 'em are detestable."
"But"—I began.
"Come on, Marg," he said, helping me up. "You can't make out a good case for the modern parents however hard you try. Let us be getting on."
We made straight for Sleepy Hollow and our pool when we arrived at the woods, and set our cloth at the edge of its banks. Such a quiet pool, it might be fast asleep. No insects hum o'er its unruffed surface. No birds twitter in the tall sedges which hug it on three sides. No fish rise, for what would be the use when there are no insects or flies. Away in every direction the pine trees stretch, filling the air with their clean, resinous odour.
We spread our mackintoshes in the very sunniest spot, and Dimbie threw himself on his back, while I sat cross-legged in tailor fashion.
"Don't you want any lunch?" I asked presently.
"Rather," he returned, sitting up. "What have you got—omelets?"