It really was, and not merely in the old bachelor’s fancy, a pretty sight.
The wife got all the newspapers and letters, and the master of the house innumerable cups of tea. He would retail all the items of news,—she, the children’s pretty sayings and doings; and if she felt a craving to unburden herself of domestic grievances, she found him ready to listen, as far as appearances went, at least.
“Is there no news to-day?” she asks, when the little disturbers of the peace have been sent out, and her husband throws himself back luxuriously in his lounging-chair.
“Oh! yes, a great piece of news. Just guess.”
“Oh! come; do tell me. You know I hate guessing.”
“Well, then, a letter from our cousins the Martendijks. Where on earth did I put it? Oh! here it is in my coat pocket. Well, there’s not much in it, except that they ask if we will have them on a visit.”
“The Martendijks!” Jo exclaims, her face lengthening. But immediately she recollects that they are relations of her husband’s; and as this is rather a sore point with him, she hastens to add: “What do you say to it, Max?”
“Well, you see,” answers Max, “I have been wondering whether we should not write that you are not yet strong enough for visitors.”
Jo does not indeed look strong, with her fitful colour, and that languid droop of the eyelids, but, like most mothers of a family who know how ill they can be spared, she is loath to allow that she is not robust, and does her best to persuade herself and every one else that, once she has got over this or that, she will be perfectly strong.
“No; you must not do that. We can’t let them stay on at that hot Soeka-Manies, especially with the bad season coming on. When do they propose to come?”