“Hallo, what literature have we here?”
He picked up Jack’s discarded book, and turned over the pages as though the illustrations brought back recollections of his own youth. As a boy he had been the most irrepressible young mischief-monger, a youngster whom Elisha would have bequeathed to the bear’s claws.
“Ever a member of the Robinson family, Mrs. Murchison?”
Catherine caught a suspicious side glint in his eye.
“I suppose all children read the book.”
“I wonder how much of the moralizing you remember?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
“Nor do I. Children demand life—not moralizing upon life,” and the Canon scrutinized a picture portraying the harpooning of a turtle, as though he had gloated over that picture many times as a boy.
Catherine had caught a glimpse of Mary’s white apron signalling for help in some domestic problem. She was glad of the excuse to leave the two men together. The sense of a woman is never more in evidence than when she surrenders her husband to a friend.
“Can you spare me half an hour for a talk?”