FullReads

Nettie denied the possibility of rain with an asperity which informed West that he had arrived on the crest of a domestic disagreement, and he understood at once the cordiality of his reception.

She had developed none of the tempestuous vices which his theories had required; on the contrary she appeared to be just the ordinary wife, with the ordinary contempt for her husband’s foibles and wishes. She could talk of the trials of housekeeping and the iniquities of servants as to the manner born, and always imitative, had lately given back the ideals of Surbiton with the fidelity of a mirror. But there were curious undercurrents beneath this surface smoothness, of which West now and then got an indication.

He renewed his acquaintance with Gladys, the little girl, who periodically forgot him, and then asked after his godson. But the subject proved unfortunate.

Nettie’s mouth took menacing lines.”Cyril, I’m sorry to say, is a very naughty boy. I don’t know what we’re going to do with him, I’m sure.”

West could not help smiling.”It’s somewhat early days to despair of his ultimate improvement, perhaps? How old is he? Not three till December, I think?” He told himself that the openhearted, sensitive, impulsive little fellow ought not to be very difficult to manage.

“He’s old enough to be made to obey,” she said, with a glance at Catterson, which suggested some contentious background to the remark.

“Oh, well, one doesn’t want to break the child’s spirit,” Catterson protested.

“I think his spirit will have to be broken very soon,” asserted Nettie, “if he goes on being as troublesome as he has been lately.”

Gladys, sitting by her mother’s side, drank in everything that was said. She was now five years old, and a little miniature of Nettie. She turned her clear and stolid eyes from one to another.

“Cyril’s a… naughty… little boy,” she observed in a piping drawl, a thin exaggeration of Nettie’s own, and making impressive pauses between the words.”He’s never going to be tooked… up the river like me. Is he, mother?”

“If you want to be a good little girl,” observed Catterson, “you’ll put your bread and jam into your mouth, instead of feeding your ear with it as you are doing at present.”

“Cyril don’t have… no jam… for histea,” she began again, “‘cos he’s so naughty. He only has dry bread an’–“

“Come, come, don’t talk so much, Gladys,” said her father impatiently, “or perhaps you won’t get ‘tooked’ up the river again either.”

Nettie put an arm round her.

“Poor little soul! Mother’ll take her up the river always, won’t she? We don’t mind what Papa says, do we?”

“Silly old Papa!” cried the child, throwing him one of Nettie’s own looks, “we don’t mind what he says, we don’t.”

All the same, when tea was over, and they prepared to make a start in the canoe, West their still somewhat unwilling guest, Catterson put his foot down and refused to take Gladys with them for various reasons. Four couldn’t get into the canoe with safety or comfort; the child had been out all day, and had already complained of sickness from the constant swaying motion; but chiefly because it was undoubtedly going to rain. Nettie gave in with a bad grace, and the little girl was led off, roaring, by her maid.

Nettie had complained that the tea was cold, and that she could not drink it. She had insisted on Catterson having a second brew brought. Then when this came she had pushed away her cup, and pronounced it as unpalatable as the first. But no sooner were they some way down stream, than she said she was thirsty, and asked for ginger beer.