Between the lovely lines she could hear Mamma say, "They all scamp their work. You would require a resident carpenter and a resident glazier—"
And Mrs. Farmer's soft drawl spinning out the theme: "And a resident plumber. Yes, Mrs. Olivier, you really wou-ould."
Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had called and stayed to tea. Across the room you could see his close, hatchet nose and straggly beard. Every now and then his small, greenish eyes lifted and looked at you.
Impossible that you had ever enjoyed going to Mrs. Farmer's to see the baby. It was like something that had happened to somebody else, a long time ago. Mrs. Farmer was always having babies, and always asking you to go and see them. She couldn't understand that as you grew older you left off caring about babies.
"'—We are such stuff
As dreams are made of—'"
"The Bishop—Confirmation—opportunity."
Even Mamma owned that Mr. Farmer never knew when it was time to go.
"'As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep—'"
The universe is nothing but the spectacle of the dreams of God. Or was it the thoughts of God?
"Confirmation—Parish Church—Bishop—"