It was her fault. If she had been less get-at-able, less ready with her all-embracing smile, he would never have known the girl and her mother. If Sibyl hadn’t married Eustace Carston this could never have happened.
Arrived at the house Marcus found the door wide open. He knocked on it with his stick and viciously broke a blister in the paint which took him back to the joys of boyhood. Out rushed a small boy—exactly the kind of small boy he should have expected. A boy covered with sand—his hair full of it—his knees sandy—his stockings held sand in every rib.
“Hullo! You have come, then? Mum said you would funk it at the last moment.”
“Did she?” asked Marcus. Was here an excuse he could seize—
“Come in—the teapot’s on the table.”
Marcus followed the sandy boy into a room that seemed full to overflowing—of the girl’s relations. They all had great big eyes, some brown, some blue: all too big. Their cheeks were too pink—they were all horribly healthy. It was just the sort of family she would belong to. The girl detached herself from a crowd gathered round what they chose to call an aquarium, to make much of Marcus—to put him at his ease. She wore a pink blouse and was quite free from sand. Her cheeks were flushed, but that might come from shrimping. She was a little too pleased to see him, and a little too grateful to him for coming. Perhaps she knew how much he was suffering. She must know he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of thing. He thought of Diana. How would she look in the midst of this family? Delightfully cool, he knew, and tremendously amused. She would love to see him being made a fuss of by the wrong kind of people.
The sandy boy, having given his sister her chance, proceeded to take his and monopolized Mr. Maitland.
Marcus thought in despair that the tea, if ever possible at this hour, must by now be quite undrinkable. The sandy boy had a crab in water to show Mr. Maitland, and a starfish imprisoned—it had died—and there were jellyfish in a bucket—jellyfish of all pets the least likely to move Marcus to enthusiasm. He tried to be interested—was beginning to like the small boy a little—when the mother came and told Sandy to leave Mr. Maitland alone.
“Why should Rose have him?” asked the sandy boy, defiantly.
“Sandy, you scamp,” said his mother, “what nonsense you talk!”