I had made some masculine pretext for leaving Carrie behind, and she was to follow later. I had a small reason of my own for wishing to see Mrs. Kit alone.
Mrs. Kit’s maid admitted me. That young person always seems inclined to laugh when she sees me. I swear I have never encouraged her.
The drawing-room door was opened to me, but I walked past it, beckoned by a distant sound of childish romping, and a young mother’s call of “Come here, Chris.” I made all the noise in my approach that pretended stealth demanded; I am delicate in my freedom.
Now, that is a part that needs a nice discrimination in the true performing of it. Intimacy has no severer test. Show me the indiscreet bachelor friend whose title falls short, be it only by a syllable, of the full warranty, and I will show you a man who shall wait for invitations, and to whom the fiery sword of “not at home” shall be displayed. The young wife in particular is apt to be touchy.
My approach had been heard, and a subdued scuffling subsided as I entered the half-open nursery door. Mrs. Kit had a maid, and had at one time kept a nurse; but the nurse had gracefully relinquished the engagement on finding she had two children in charge, the grown-up one scarcely more manageable than the chubby little imp who bore his father’s name. Consequently, Master Christopher occupied a good deal of his mother’s time, and was in a fair way for being spoiled.
This young gentleman of four hailed me with a shout, and childish glee in his scantiness of garment; while his mother, rosy and bright with romping, did her best to look crossly on my intrusion. Mrs. Carmichael always keeps up an appearance of formality, even with me.
“Mr. Butterfield, how dare you come into my nursery!”
“Mrs. Carmichael,” I replied, “I came to have a talk with your son in the matter of a certain giant in whom we are both interested. Perhaps you yourself would care——”
“Chris shall not hear any story till he has his pinafore on. It is as well you are a bachelor, Mr. Butterfield. You would spoil the best child in the world.”
“Unless I am mistaken, Mrs. Kit,” I answered, “you yourself were playing the part of a bear when I entered. Does one hunt bears without a pinafore?”