“Why shouldn’t I take the children out this afternoon, and let you go home and rest? You are not fit to push this heavy pram.”
She gaped at me, amazed and embarrassed.
“You? Oh, I couldn’t possibly! Why should you—”
“Because I should love it. I have nothing to do, and the days seem so long. I’d be very careful.”
“Oh, it’s not that! I am sure you would! And the children would love it. They are so fond of you already; but—”
“Well?”
“I couldn’t! It is too much. But I do thank you all the same. It’s sweet of you to have thought of it!”
For the moment it was plainly tactless to urge her further, so I just repeated:—
“Well, I mean it! Please send for me if you change your mind,” and retreated forthwith.
Behold the reward of diplomacy. That very evening Mr Manners, the papa, knocked at my door and requested to see Miss Harding. I was reading comfortably, sans wig and sans spectacles, behind the locked door of my bedroom. The little maid, having been repeatedly instructed that all callers were to be shown into the drawing-room, was no doubt elated to have an opportunity of turning precept into practice. I arose, hastily made myself look as elderly and discreet as possible, and sallied forth to greet him.