“Do you ride a bicycle?”
“No. I—I’ve never had the chance.”
“Oh! you must get one. Mustn’t she, mamma? It is such fun. In the summer we have picnics, and in the winter paper chases.”
“That would be nice.”
The cascades of tepid water were growing in volume. She was new to this class of caller. Her London experience was pretty large; she had knocked about in her search for bread. She knew the art jargon of Hampstead, the conscientious struggle for intellect and high purpose which distinguishes the prosperous quarter of Bloomsbury. She could talk shops with a feather-headed woman, babies, even, with a bovine one, or the divine duties of sex with the serious. But with these people there was no give-and-take, no merry tossing with the ball, no brightening of the wits.
“And I suppose you were living with some other relations in London?”
“No,” she said curtly, “I was working for my living. Jethro is my only relation.”
“We are all kin, are we not, mamma?”
“Of course. So you had a career, dear? Yes. Art? So many girls go in for that. Nancy attended the Liddleshorn school for a time. But I don’t think the influence is good for a young woman. I must say that drawing from a model is not my idea of delicacy.”
“Never from the nude, mamma.”