"No, mum, it's me that smokes, mum, not the chimney, mum. Sometimes I have a cigar, mum, in my room, mum, and a room that's good enough for me must be good enough for your dogs, mum," said Tom, the imaginary Banks.
We all three shouted with laughter at his wit, though poor Banks, the most modest of young men, whose only peculiarity was that in his nervousness he used to say "ma'am" or "sir" with every two words, would have been horrified if he had known how Tom was caricaturing him. We were still laughing when the door opened suddenly and mother with some real ladies, to whom she was showing the house, came in.
There were two ladies—a not very particular one, just rather nice, but we didn't notice her very much, and a much younger one whom we noticed in a minute. It was partly I think because of her pretty hair, which was that bright goldy kind that looks as if the sun was always shining on it. Mine is a little like that, but not so bright as aun—oh, I forgot; you wouldn't understand. And her hair showed more because of her being all dressed in black—regular black because of somebody belonging to her being dead I mean. She came last into the room, of course that was right because she was youngest, and mother came in first to open the door like—I can remember quite well the way they all stood for a minute.
"This is the nursery, I see," said the nothing particular lady. "Well, with me it would not be that, as I have no children. But it would make a nice morning-room—it must be a bright room on a sunny day."
"Yes," said mother, "that is why we chose it for a nursery. It is a pity for you to see the house on such a dull day—it is such a bright house generally—we have liked it very much."
Mother spoke sadly—I knew the tone of her voice quite well. We all three had of course stopped playing and stood round listening to what was said. We must have looked rather funny—Racey with a skirt of mine and a white apron of Pierson's, Tom with a towel tied round him to look like Banks in the pantry, and I with an old shawl and a bonnet very much on one side, with a long feather, which we had got out of our "dressing-up" things. We were so interested in listening to mother and in looking at the ladies, particularly the golden-haired one, that we quite forgot what queer figures we were, till the young lady turned towards us.
"These are your little children," she said, with a smile—a rather sad smile—to mother. "They are playing at dressing-up, I see."
"We're playing at ladies coming to see the house," I said, coming forward—I never was a shy child—"There have been such a lot of ladies."
Mother turned to the young lady.
"It is perhaps well that they should be able to make a play of it," she said.