Her father had one eye on the child as he steered the car through the market-place and past St. Antonia’s into Lombard Street. The youth in him revolted from administering moral physic to Miss Gwen. Even the florist seemed to have treated her pennies with generous respect, and like the majority of sympathetic males, Murchison left the dogmatic formalities of education to his wife. The very flowers, the child’s offering, would have withered at any tactless chiding.
Mary, the darner of Mr. Jack’s stockings, was discovered waddling up Lombard Street with flat-footed haste. Miss Gwen greeted her with the composure of an empress, proud of her flowers, her father, the motor-car, and life in general. To Mary’s “Oh—Miss Gwen!” she answered with a sedate giggle and hugged her basket of flowers.
Murchison saw his wife’s figure framed between the white posts of the doorway. He chuckled as he reached for his instrument bag under the seat, and caught a glimpse of Mary’s outraged authority.
“Look, mother, look, you love daffies ever so much. I bought them all myself.”
Catherine’s arms were hugging the green frock.
“Gwen, you wicked one,” and she caught her husband’s eyes and blushed.
“We are growing old fast, Kate. I picked her up in Chapel Gate.”
“The dear flowers; come, darling. Jack, you rascal, what are you doing?”
“Master Jack! Master Jack!”
Male mischief was astir also in Lombard Street, having emerged from the school-room with the much-tried Mary’s darning-basket. There was an ironical humor in pelting the fat woman with the stockings she had mended and rolled so conscientiously. His father’s appearance in the hall sent Master Jack laughing and squirming up the stairs. He was caught, tickled, and carried in bodily to lunch.