They counted.
“Four an’ six!” screamed William. “Four an’ six! Jolly good, I should say! An’ it would only have been about two shillings without Aunt Emily, an’ I thought of her, didn’t I? I guess you can all be jolly grateful to me.”
“All right,” said Henry unkindly. “I’m not envying you, am I? You’re welcome to it when she tells your father.”
And William’s proud spirits dropped.
Then came the opening of the fateful door and heavy steps descending the stairs.
William’s mother had returned from her weekly visit to her friend. She was placing her umbrella in the stand as Aunt Emily, hatted and coated and carrying a bag, descended. William’s father had just awakened from his peaceful Sunday afternoon slumber, and, hearing his wife, had come into the hall.
Aunt Emily fixed her eye upon him.
“Will you be good enough to procure a conveyance?” she said. “After the indignities to which I have been subjected in this house I refuse to remain in it a moment longer.”
Quivering with indignation she gave details of the indignities to which she had been subjected. William’s mother pleaded, apologised, coaxed. William’s father went quietly out to procure a conveyance. When he returned she was still talking in the hall.
“A crowd of vulgar little boys,” she was saying, “and horrible indecent placards all over the room.”