“But, look here,” said Eliphalet very seriously. “When I was a younger man I used to count the buttons on policemen’s coats.” And with this grave admission, he turned away. He had not gone more than twenty yards before his attention was attracted by two small boys and a little girl, their noses glued to the windows of a confectioner’s.
“Are you hungry?” he demanded.
All three turned their attention from the magnetic charms of mince-pies and Maids-of-Honour to the æsthetic and deeply-seamed features of Eliphalet Cardomay. There was something in his countenance which at once dispelled any inclinations to tell untruths. It was such an open and kindly face—like that of an old baby—and the child he had addressed turned from the contemplation of it to judge the effect his words had made upon the other two.
Presently the little girl replied, “Noa, us isn’t ’oongry, but us cud do wi’ soom of they there.”
“So could I,” said Eliphalet. “Come along.”
At the head of this little ragged band he entered the shop and addressed a comfortable looking matron who was arranging macaroons on a glass stand.
“We have come to eat cakes, madam,” he announced. “Chelsea buns, tarts with jam on them, doughnuts and sweet almond biscuits. We are not hungry, you understand, but we want these things, for the children do not know their flavours—and I have forgotten them.”
So the good lady, who was a motherly soul, established them at a little marble-topped table and brought many delicacies, and Eliphalet, an Easter cake in one hand and a marzipan potato in the other, began to talk. He told them many little incidents of his own childhood—his voice sounding very far away. He told them the plot of Julius Cæsar and how he would like to be a grandfather—or a father—and what he intended to put on for this spring season, and about a villa at New Brighton where he would live when he retired.
And all the while the children swallowed the cakes and thought him amiable but mad.
It was seven-fifteen when the feast was suddenly broken up by the violent entry of Mr. Dyson.