Mrs Manning represented that Sunday was also a holiday for nurse and her friends, and Francis said, very well, then, they must have two nurses. If necessary they must have three. The one thing certain was that he could not be disturbed on his day of rest, so a capable assistant was engaged forthwith, and comfort was re-established.
The Mannings took no part in the intellectual life of the neighbourhood. There, were several book clubs, lecture courses, and the like, which they were urged to join, but without success. Francis declared that he worked all day, and came home to rest, and his wife said, thank you, no; she had no wish to go back to school at her age. They went out to dinner now and then, and made a point of giving two or three dinners themselves every winter. They provided lavishly on such occasions, and were agreeably conscious that their guests were impressed. Both husband and wife enjoyed rich foods, and saw no reason for denying themselves the gratification.
As far as religion was concerned, the Mannings made a point of going to church with the children every Sunday morning when it was fine, or they were not late for breakfast, or Francis did not feel inclined for a walk. Sometimes he went off golfing for the day, and then Mrs Manning dressed Maud in her best clothes and they went to church together. She had been brought up to go to church, and thought the habit “nice.” Besides it was pleasant to see friends coming out, and walk home with Mrs Lane, her favourite neighbour. They would meet on the path outside the graveyard, and turn uphill together, and Mrs Lane would say: “What a sermon! My dear, did you see the woman in the pew before ours? She came in late, just before the psalms. She took off her coat, and, my dear, her blouse—”
She would proceed to describe the blouse in detail, and Mrs Manning would sigh and say: “It is nice to have something interesting to look at in the next pew! We have those awful Miss Newtes.”
The neighbours on both sides envied the Francis Mannings, and quoted their doings with admiration. In the matter of holidays, for instance, how sane and sensible were their arrangements! The children were sent with their nurses to the sea, the father enjoyed himself on Scottish golf links; the mother toured abroad with a woman friend. Each autumn the neighbours agreed to profit by the example of the Francis Mannings, and to do likewise the next summer; but somehow it never came off. When spring came round the wife would conscientiously remind her husband of the resolve, and urge him to keep it, while gracefully withdrawing herself. “Margot has had several of those bad chest colds,” she would explain. “I should be so anxious in case she caught a chill. It really is my duty to go with the children but you, dear, you could quite well—”
“Well! I don’t know,” the husband would reply. “What would become of you in the evenings? And I promised to teach Jack to swim. I think, on the whole, we’d better stick to the old arrangement this summer.”
So once more they would depart en famille to the seaside, and stay in lodgings, and be happy in the old domesticated fashion. But also, quite frequently, bored!
On the rare occasions when he gave himself over to thought, Francis realised that there was only one respect in which life had disappointed him, only one desire which had been withheld. He wanted a son. Each time that a child had been expected he had built his hopes upon a son; each time disappointment had been more acute. He had built up a good business by his own exertions; he wanted a son of his own name to carry it on. There were times, moreover, when the purely feminine nature of his household fretted his nerves, and he thought, with longing, of a man child; a little chappie in trousers, instead of the eternal flounces; a knickerbockered elf sitting in his dressing-room watching him shave; a tall hobbledehoy beginning to play golf, listening with interest to accounts of his father’s prowess. Later on, a man, a partner, a prop for declining years. Francis pushed the thought from him, but it recurred. Deep at his heart lay the longing for a son.
And the son came. This time he had not hoped; he had told himself steadily that it would be a girl. Better if it were a girl. No use having a boy at the end of a family of girls. He would grow up half a girl himself, and be a disappointment. He was placidly resigned to girl, and after all, behold, it was a boy! The blood raced through his veins as he heard the good news; something astonishingly like tears pricked at his eyes.
“Is he—is he all right?” he asked breathlessly, and the doctor laughed.