When we were out of the house—our departure watched by the penitent Mrs. Kenningham—I asked the girl whether she had spoken the exact and precise truth.
"Aunt Weston," she answered, "I may have anticipated events slightly; whatever crime there is in that can be charged against me. But I'm not going to stand by and see any other woman snatch at him. Let me reply to his letter."
"Your news, my dear, will make him very happy."
"Been trying all my life to find happiness for myself," she said, "and I haven't succeeded. Maybe I shall be more fortunate in endeavouring to give it to somebody else."
We had a great meeting of friends, shortly after this, at Gloucester Place; so extensive that Mr. Hillier spoke of the drawbacks attendant on living in a flat, and compared the advantages of a house away from London. Singing was, by consent, barred. A gentleman belonging to the music-hall profession had come to live next door, and his habit of giving a birthday party every Sunday night was not without its inconveniences; it is only fair to say that when I called on him at the request of old Mrs. Winterton, he proved as amiable as anyone could be.
"Had no idea," he declared, self reproachfully, "there was anything like illness about, or else it wouldn't have happened. Say so, won't you, ma'am, with my compliments. Assure them that, until they give the word, hospitality is off. The old Captain's honestly ill, is he? Well, I'm sorry, and I can't say more. I expect the war has been too much for him. It affects a lot of people who try not to shew it. Here!" He took me aside. "Between ourselves, I'd give anything for that suit he wears, if ever he wants to get rid of it. I can assure you it would get me a roar the very moment I went on."
So that at our gathering we had no music, but there was plenty to talk about, and my nephew Herbert and Muriel were, to my great delight, on excellent terms—they had agreed, she told me, to wait until the war was over—and John was home from his tour, giving imitations of chairmen he had encountered, and obtaining the aid of Edward in reckoning the profits; the total when announced by the lad was received with applause. John's leg still gave trouble: he spoke of the old and less exacting task of writing songs. Colonel Edgington was there to play billiards with Mr. Hillier; I took coffee down to the room and found the two disputing in a manner that reminded me of Chislehurst days. The Colonel, I gathered, was arguing not for the first time that he either possessed influence or knew someone who owned it, and he desired it should be used on behalf of Mr. Hillier; the contention of Mr. Hillier was that he had every reason to be thankful for the position he now occupied.
And there was Katherine and her jolly baby. I wish I could describe to you how fond we all were of the little chap; how relieved I was to find that his nurse had asked for the day off; what a joy it was to me to watch him and to help his young mother in looking after him. Katherine and nurse appeared to get along well enough with each other, but my antagonism to the girl had in no sense diminished, and as I sat near the window, looking across the gardens at The Circus, I tried to fix the details of a plan for getting rid of her, and securing for myself a greater control over the dear mite. (You will perhaps think that I was always scheming to get my own way, and you are probably not far wrong.)
"The work at the shop in London Street," I overheard Katherine say to John, "is telling on her. Do wish she'd give it up."