“Yes, oh yes.”
“Little girls who go to pantomimes must go to bed early. Shall daddy carry you up-stairs?”
A tired but ecstatic sigh accepted the condition. Murchison lifted the child, kissed her, and smiled sadly at his wife.
“What about your unregenerate son?”
Catherine turned, and called to Jack, who was listening at the nursery door.
“Jack, dear, you may come down.”
A clatter of feet pounded down the stairs.
“Quiet, dear, quiet.”
“Daddy, Bert Smith’s going to the pantomime.”
“He is, is he? Well, so are we.”