“And your second sister’s husband, Mrs.—er—, is he still alive?” said the younger woman to the elder as I passed them. It is funny, now you come to think of it, how we never can remember our friends’ names “without we think,” as they say in Millport. “Mrs.—er—” is the usual form of address, I find, and we repeat it constantly; perhaps in the hope that by and by the name will come back to us.
“And your second sister’s husband, Mrs.—er—, is he still alive?” I nearly said it to the ticket man at the booking office. Instead I leaned over the little opening and said, “Third return Southfield, Mr.—er—, thank you—pleasant change after the rain, isn’t it? It is indeed, thank you. You haven’t got two halfpennies for a penny, have you? Oh, never mind, don’t trouble; but it’s handy to have about you; saves waiting for the change sometimes if you’re in a hurry.” Then I dropped a shilling on the ground and fell over the man behind me.
In the train I found myself in imagination again pursuing the second sister’s husband. Was he still alive or not? He had married into the family of those strange, flat sisters, who looked like vegetables. He and the first sister’s husband were, probably, very much alike; only one was called Tom and the other Willie, and one did well and the other didn’t. Unfortunately the first sister’s husband had been conversationally disposed of before I met the elder and the younger lady, so it was impossible to decide whether he were still alive or not. Perhaps he had been carted away in a hearse, followed by six or seven cabs full of black people, all minding their own business, but glad to get a nice drive and a bit of rest; pleased also to see Annie and her husband, who had come over from Manchester for it, and Willie’s nephew, who had got a day off from the works. It was all very nice, but a pity about poor Willie—ah, dear me, yes, to be sure—a nice bit of country you pass through on the way to the cemetery—yes, indeed; and how they are building out in that direction too! I went all the way to Willie’s funeral with that lugubrious lady in the bonnet, and thoroughly enjoyed the trip. But still the problem vexed me—her second sister’s husband; was he still alive? Probably not so well in his health, anyhow, as he used to be, poor fellow! But the three sisters would most likely go on for some time. Sisters are easier to rear as babies and they last longer, for they don’t trouble their heads so much. It is worry kills people, and a hen does not worry much. It squawks and flutters if anything comes on it, sudden-like, but it’ll soon settle down again and pick its food and lay another egg if you give it time—eh, dearie me, yes, to be sure!
I finished up the afternoon at a tea-party, and sat next to a lady whom I had met before but did not really know. I think that I must have fallen asleep for a moment, because I suddenly found myself looking at her with a glassy eye and asking, “And your second sister’s husband, Mrs.—er—, is he still alive?”
No—nothing happened. It was at a time of year when the days are closing in—we had all just remarked on the fact—and my lucky star was twinkling through a gap in the curtains.
“He’s very well, thank you, Mrs.—er—,” replied my neighbour with a pleased smile. “He’s doing very well now. You knew he’d been ill, of course—so good of you to ask—but they think he’s quite turned the corner now.”
I wonder if she saw my blushes. Perhaps she put them down to the tea; and there was a good fire going too. Some of us, I remember, preferred to sit a little away from it, thank you; there’s always a risk in going out afterwards. I had been so successful that I ventured again and asked, “Has your sister many children?” “Oh, just the three she’s always had,” was the alarming reply I got. “Did something prick you, Mrs.—er—?” she asked kindly. “Oh, that’s all right. I thought you seemed to give a jump. No, just the same three. The eldest, you know, are at school, and there’s the baby. He’s just two now; such a nice age!”
“Do you think so?” I said, I couldn’t resist it; it was what the young lady in the shop had said to me that morning when I told her I would rather have a boot that fitted me. Of course, two is a nice age, but if you only knew how often I have heard the same thing said about every child, from an infant a day old to a great dolloping creature of fifteen, with spots——!