Frederica drew the second reluctant youth across the lawn.
“This is your great-nephew Jonathan,” she yelled into the muffler. “He’s in the CHURCH. He’s looking forward SO much to a TALK with you, DEAR Uncle George.”
With a sprightly nod at the horn-rimmed spectacles, she departed. Jonathan smiled mirthlessly. Then he proceeded to shout at William with sotto voce interjections.
“GOOD AFTERNOON, UNCLE GEORGE—confound you—WE’RE SO GLAD TO SEE YOU—don’t think—WE EXPECT TO SEE A LOT OF YOU NOW—worse luck—WE WANT TO BE A HAPPY, UNITED FAMILY—you crusty old mummy—WE HOPE—er—WE HOPE—er——”
He couldn’t think what else to hope, so, purple with the effort of shouting, he stopped for breath. William, who was enjoying this part, chuckled. Jonathan with a sigh of relief departed. He went to the others who were watching expectantly.
“It’s all right,” he said airily. “The old chap’s quite good-tempered now—my few words seemed to hit the spot.”
William watched the group, wondering what was going to be done next and who was going to do it. He hardly dared move in case his spectacles or muffler or rug fell off and revealed him to the cold light of day. He felt instinctively that the cold light of day would have little pity on him.
Then he saw two maids come round the house to the lawn. One carried a table and the other a tray on which were some cakes that made William’s mouth water. Would he—Oh, would he have to sit fasting and watch these unworthy people eat those glorious cakes and, Oh, scrummy!—there was a bowl of fruit salad. Surely——
Oh, surely he deserved a bit of food after all he’d been through. His eyes shone eagerly and hungrily through his horn-rimmed spectacles—if he just undid his muffler enough to eat a bit of fruit salad—and that chocolate cake—and the one with green icing—Oh, and that one with nuts on the top—surely eating just a little like that wouldn’t give him away. He couldn’t starve for ever.
And what was going to happen to him, anyway—he couldn’t stay all his life in a bath-chair in that garden starving and growling at people—he was jolly sick of it already, but he didn’t know what to do—they’d have to find out sometime—and he didn’t know what they’d do when they did find out—and he was sick of the whole thing—and it was all Ginger’s fault going off and leaving him and— He looked across the lawn at them. His gaze through the horn-rimmed spectacles was wistful.