“I always understood he had a reputation for being very good fun,” said Cyril.
“Yes, to the others,” she agreed. “They all adore him and he never minds anything they do or if he does they only think it funnier still. It is women he thinks ought not to be amused at anything broader than—— Oh, I don’t know, the way a canary eats or something like that.”
“Very dry humour certainly,” he commented, “but easily gratified. It’s a pity more of you don’t care for it.”
“Father, don’t talk to the gallery,” she reproached him. “You know you detest a perfect lady.”
“H’m. First catch your hare,” he replied. “We’re not getting on with this, Chips, but I wish I could help you. How does he take the prospect of fatherhood? If it’s a girl and you keep her in good condition I should think his number will be up shortly.”
“But I hate fighting,” she objected. “Why can’t we be happy? And suppose it is a boy and he learns to hate Evan? I should give up then and run away with him to the desert and live on dates in the sun. I won’t have a little boy brought up in that abominable nonsense about Hell. Anger is hell. I don’t believe in a God with a black temper.”
“Have another cigarette,” said Cyril.
“Thanks.”
“What are Hatton’s sisters like?” he asked after a pause.
“Giggly little people,” she said, “awfully kind.”