“Is it? Good God! And yet we discuss our colds in the most polite society, and bear witness to their intensity by quoting the number of handkerchiefs we’ve used. We have no shame in trumpeting our petty thoughts of the day, but that faint bugle-call that sounds in the night and summons us—”
“I think supper is waiting,” said Mrs. Rendall, rising to her feet. “I suppose you will be staying.”
“Delighted,” said Clem, affably. “And I’ll bring the bugle-call with me.”
“I trust you won’t forget that servants will be in the room,” remarked Mr. Rendall.
“We can send ’em out to ask my cabby to wait.”
Clem did not delay his departure over long. His conversational tide was somewhat dammed by the cold mutton and cold potatoes that formed the basis of his brother’s hospitality.
He allowed Mr. Rendall to do the talking, and was oppressed by a great pity for his little nephew, who had to listen to such irritable and melancholy matter at every meal.
Wallace and Eva, the two elder children, behaved with precision and did not open their lips, save for the reception of food. Wynne was discouraged on the few occasions he spoke, and was the recipient of injunctions not to “crumble his bread,” and to “sit up properly.” These recurred with a clockwork regularity that deprived them of the essence of command.
The result was to make Clem feel very dejected and forlorn.
He said good-bye on the doorstep and walked, alone as he thought, to the front gate. Arrived there he said in a very heartfelt manner: