“Grace, my darling,” said Mr. Waring, passing his free hand wearily over his brow, “such scenes as these are indeed upsetting. I am quite unable to take up the thread of our discourse.”
“I feel as you do, Henry,” said his wife sadly, “we seem to have so very little time to ourselves.”
“Do you think, Grace, we should procure a tutor for those children? Let me see, how old are they?”
“I have their ages down somewhere in my tablets,” said Mrs. Waring rummaging in her pocket, and producing a little book of ivory tablets. She consulted it anxiously.
“Just fancy!” she exclaimed with astonished eyes, “Dacre will be seven in April—I had no idea he was so old—and I see Gwen is just twelve months younger.”
“I think their physical powers are now fairly developed—indeed, I am of opinion that the boy’s development will continue to be mainly physical; he will, I fear, run much to cricket and other brutal sports. But no doubt he has some small amount of brain power that should be made the most of. We must now get someone who will undertake this business for us, dear love.”
“Ah,” said his wife plaintively, “the feeding and physical care of children seems a terrible responsibility; it weighs upon my life. But the development of their intellectual powers!—I wish the time for it had kept off just a little longer, until we were farther on in our last, our best work. And if,” she said wearily, “you think the brain power of Dacre, at least, is so insignificant, the task becomes Herculean.”
“We must consult the rector, dear.”
“I feel in some way we must have failed in our duty. The grammar that child spoke was appalling, as was also the intonation of her words. I wonder how this has come to pass? I should have thought her mere heredity would have saved us this.”
Mrs. Waring sighed heavily, fate seemed against her, even heredity was playing her false.