“Certainly, as regards the science he practises,” says her husband. “What was it he had in hand last week? Some invention for making people invisible by painting them with invisible paint? Ha! ha! He invited me to let him try it on me.”
“He did try it on me,” chimes in Raby.
“It is nothing to laugh about,” says the mother; “it is much better for him to be of an inquiring turn of mind than—idle,” adds she, looking significantly at her niece’s empty hand.
“It strikes me it is we who are of an inquiring turn of mind just now,” said the father. “I fancy he’ll turn up. He generally does. Meanwhile, I will go and finish my writing.” And he politely retires.
“Raby, my dear,” says Mrs Rimbolt—Raby always knows what is coming when a sentence begins thus—“Raby, my dear, it does not sound nice to hear you making fun of your cousin. Percy is very good to you—”
“Oh yes!” interrupts Raby, almost enthusiastically.
“Which makes it all the less nice on your part to make a laughing-stock of him in the presence of his own father. It may seem unlikely that people should be rendered invisible—”
Mrs Rimbolt stops, conscious she is about to talk nonsense, and Raby gallantly covers her retreat.
“I’m sure I wish I knew half what he does about all sorts of things.”
“I wish so too,” replies the aunt, severely and ungratefully.