"I used to know this boy's father in those days," went on Lady Simon. "He was a lamb."
"He was also my pupil in his youth," said Mrs. Handsomebody, and the two talked on in the happiest fashion, till we took our leave, the whole family following us to the door, and "Baby" returning Mrs. Handsomebody's umbrella, and relieving her of the battledore without her having been aware of the negotiation.
So we who had expected to be haled to retribution, as criminals of the deepest dye, floated homeward in the serene light of Mrs. Handsomebody's approval.
No one spoke till the Cathedral came in view. Then Angel said:
"There's a window in the Cathedral in memory of a son of some Duke of Aberfalden. He died about a hundred years ago."
"The very same family," replied our governess, "and, I am sure, from now on, my dear boy, you will regard the window with a new reverence."
"You must have noticed," she proceeded, "the geniality and dignity that emanated from each separate member of that noble family. This is admirably expressed by the French in the saying—'Noblesse oblige'—meaning that nobility has its obligations. Repeat the phrase after me, David, that you may acquire a perfect accent."
"Knob-less obleedge," repeated Angel, submissively; and The Seraph also repeated it several times, as though storing it away for future use.
When Mrs. Handsomebody rang the door-bell, I trembled for Mary Ellen, remembering where I had last seen her, but the admirable girl promptly opened the door to us, clad in the drabbest of her cellar-cleaning garb, a smudge of soot on her rosy cheek.
Mrs. Handsomebody ordered sardines for tea, and had the silver tea-pot brought out. She also dressed for the occasion, adding a jet bracelet, seldom seen, to her toilet.