“That’s a recipe I’ll take back to Brownie!” was Norah’s significant comment. “Do you think Mrs. Moroney would let me have a lesson on it in the kitchen?”
“Mrs. Moroney seems inclined to eat from one’s hand,” said Mr. Linton. “She’s desperately anxious for us to be comfortable. You know, we were told in London that she had only begun this business since the war—her husband is at the front—so time hasn’t soured her as it sours most landladies. We’re lucky in catching her in the fluid state: later on she’ll solidify into the adamantine condition that is truly landladylike.”
“Meanwhile, she’s rather an old duck,” said Wally. “Hallo, who’s that?”
A small rosy face, crowned with a tangle of yellow curls, was peeping round the doorway. Finding itself observed, it hastily disappeared. Norah snatched a sponge-cake and went in swift pursuit, returning, a moment later, with a very small boy clad in a blue shirt and ridiculously diminutive knickerbockers, who greeted the company with a friendly smile somewhat complicated by a large mouthful of cake.
“Well, you’re a cheerful person,” Jim said. “What’s your name?”
“Timsy,” said the new-comer. “And I’m eight.”
“I call that genius,” said Wally. “He knew you’d ask him that next, so he saved you the trouble. Do you live here, Timsy?”
The small boy nodded vigorously.
“Me daddy’s gorn,” he volunteered.
“Where?”