I was almost sorry I had suggested it; into Madge’s face there came a look I had seen there before, and the colour deepened in her cheeks. But she answered quite happily.
“Yes, aunty, perhaps they would like to hear about—you know who I mean, and my other aunties, who are mammas now as well; if you wouldn’t mind writing it down—I don’t think I could tell it straight off.”
“Very well,” I said, “I’ll remember. And if, possibly, some not real stories come into my head—there’s no saying what I can do till I try,” for I felt myself now getting into the spirit of it,—“you won’t object, I suppose, to a fairy tale, or an adventure, for instance—just by way of a change you know?”
General clapping of hands.
“Well then,” I said, “to begin with, I’ll tell you a story which is—no, I won’t tell you what it is, real or not; you shall find out for yourselves.”
And in this way it came to pass, you see, that there was quite a succession of “blind man’s holidays,” on which occasions poor aunty was always expected to have a story forthcoming.