As a result of my suggestion, Mr Hallett has taken Mr Thorold to several concerts, and as a crowning effort actually lured him to a week-end at Brighton. That was last week; and as the day was mild and—almost!—sunny, I suggested to the little girls that we should go holiday-making on our own account, and pay a visit to the Zoo.
The proposal excited great enthusiasm, and an early lunch was ordered so that we could set forth in good time, so as to have a couple of hours with the animals before adjourning to a confectioner’s for tea. I remembered my own childhood too well to suggest returning home for the meal. To drink tea out of strange cups, in a strange room, to have a practically unlimited choice of strange cakes—this is a very orgie of bliss to anything “in one figure,” and when the tea is followed by a drive home in a taxi, satisfaction approaches delirium. I remembered Mr Thorold’s pathetic “Make them happy!” and determined that, if it were in my power, this should be a day to be remembered.
Lunch was finished, I dressed the little girls in their new hats and coats, wriggled their fingers into new gloves, saw to it that there was not a crease in their stockings nor a chink in the lacing of their boots, and had just settled them on the sofa in the drawing-room to wait quietly until I rushed through my own hasty toilette, when—the door opened, and who should walk in but Ralph Maplestone himself!
For different reasons his appearance struck consternation into the breasts of all three beholders. I was naturally overcome with embarrassment as to what he had come for now; the little girls were seized with a devastating fear lest his arrival should interfere with their treat. They leapt to their feet, and rent the air with protestations.
“Oh, oh! It’s the Same Man!”
“We’re going out! We’re going out! We’ve got on our hats.”
“To the Zoo! So’s Miss Harding. She’s just going to put on her hat.”
“It’s our treat. Father’s away. He’s having a treat, and she promised—she promised we could go!”
Tears sounded in the voices, showed in suspicious redness round the eyes. Mr Maplestone smiled—like many grave people he has a beautiful smile—he laid one big hand on the top of each little hat, and swayed them gently to and fro.
“Well, and why not? Of course you are going! All good little girls go to the Zoo, and ride on the elephants, and throw buns to the bears. You are extra good little girls, and so you can see something else—a little bird, not much bigger than a canary, who can talk and say words almost as well as you can yourselves. And think of the monkeys!”