Lady Atkinson was stout and elderly and wore a very youthful hat and coat.
“A happy Christmas to you all!” she said graciously. “The boy? Your nephew? William? How do you do, William? He—stares rather, doesn’t he? Ah, yes,” she greeted every one separately with infinite condescension.
“I’ve brought you my Christmas present in person,” she went on in the tone of voice of one giving an unheard-of treat. “Look!”
She took out of an envelope a large signed photograph of herself. “There now ... what do you think of that?”
Murmurs of surprise and admiration and gratitude.
Lady Atkinson drank them in complacently.
“It’s very good isn’t it? You ... little boy ... don’t you think it’s very like me?”
William gazed at it critically.
“It’s not as fat as you are,” was his final offering at the altar of truth.
“William!” screamed Mrs. Brown, “how can you be so impolite!”