When it was really impossible for his father to remain longer, he coaxed and whimpered a little, and finally cried himself to sleep, so that Jo was free to enjoy a quiet hour by his bedside with her work-basket, for every available moment must be snatched to make up for the time lost through Emily’s visit.
Their visitors had gone out very early that morning to call on one of their new acquaintances, a sugar manufacturer like Martendijk. It was so pleasant to come across some one in your own line, he remarked; they could discuss one thing and another while driving or walking together, and one got many a hint and idea in that way.
On their return home, the “boy” told them “Sinjo Jan” was ill.
“Oh, dear! that’s always the worst of visiting where there are children,” said Martendijk, as he sipped his bouillon; “there’s always something wrong.”
“Well, this would not be much to speak of,” said Emily, “only I’m afraid it may interfere with to-morrow evening.”
It must be explained that the Martendijks had talked so much about the attention shown to them on all sides as the Van Elsts’ guests (and they certainly had not been slow to avail themselves of the social advantages of the neighbourhood), that Jo felt at last obliged to give a small party in acknowledgment of the courtesy shown to them.
Her guests need never know all it had cost her to talk Max over, and how, when one argument after another failed to win over her perverse lord and master, she had at last taken refuge in that weapon which loses its power when too often used, and is the very last resort therefore of a clever woman—I mean tears.
For, though Jo would hardly admit the fact even to herself, Max had not been just altogether pleasant to deal with of late,—indeed, he had really been quite disagreeable and cross, and very unwilling to acknowledge himself in the wrong.
His liver had been bothering him for some little time (no wonder he grumbled), and Jo, only too ready to find satisfactory excuses for his ill-temper, was glad enough to reiterate constantly to her visitors, who had also a good deal to stand from his bearish ways, how the liver affects the temper, and how wretched it makes one feel.
This did not prevent their cousins from assuring one another repeatedly, once they were safe in their own room, that Max was a disagreeable fellow, and that were it not for the comfortable quarters they were in, and the building going on at home, they would remain no longer. For so wrapt up were they in themselves and in one another, and so absorbing was their egoïsme à deux, that it was impossible for them to realise how actions and remarks like theirs affected others; therefore, of course, they blamed Cousin Max for the rather strained relations which had come about.