FullReads

. . . . .

“I feel very proud,” said Archie as we came out of the church. “I’m not only a father, but my son has a name. And now I needn’t call him ‘er’ any more.”

“He was a good boy, wasn’t he?” said Myra.

“Thomas, say at once that your godson was a good boy.”

But Thomas was quiet. He looked years older.

“I’ve never read the service before,” he said. “I didn’t quite know what we were in for. It seems that Simpson and I have undertaken a heavy responsibility; we are practically answerable for the child’s education. We are supposed to examine him every few years and find out if he is being taught properly.”

“You can bowl to him later on if you like.”

“No, no. It means more than that.” He turned to Dahlia. “I think,” he said, “Simpson and I will walk home. We must begin at once to discuss the lines on which we shall educate our child.”

V.–HE SEES LIFE

There was no one in sight. If ’twere done well, ’twere well done quickly. I gripped the perambulator, took a last look round, and then suddenly rushed it across the drive and down a side path, not stopping until we were well concealed from the house. Panting, I dropped into a seat, having knocked several seconds off the quarter-mile record for babies under one.

“Hallo!” said Myra.

“Dash it, are there people everywhere to-day? I can’t get a moment to myself. ‘O solitude, where—-‘”

“What are you going to do with baby?”

“Peter and I are going for a walk.” My eyes rested on her for more than a moment. She was looking at me over an armful of flowers … and–well–“You can come too if you like,” I said.

“I’ve got an awful lot to do,” she smiled doubtfully.

“Oh, if you’d rather count the washing.”

She sat down next to me.

“Where’s Dahlia?”

“I don’t know. We meant to have left a note for her, but we came away in rather a hurry. ‘Back at twelve. Peter.‘”

“‘I am quite happy. Pursuit is useless,'” suggested Myra. “Poor Dahlia, she’ll be frightened when she sees the perambulator gone.”

“My dear, what could happen to it? Is this Russia?”

“Oh, what happens to perambulators in Russia?” asked Myra eagerly.

“They spell them differently,” I said, after a little thought. “Anyhow, Dahlia’s all right.”

“Well, I’ll just take these flowers in and then I’ll come back. If you and Peter will have me?”

“I think so,” I said.

Myra went in and left me to my reflections, which were mainly that Peter had the prettiest aunt in England, and that the world was very good. But my pleased and fatuous smile over these thoughts was disturbed by her announcement on her return.

“Dahlia says,” she began, “that we may have Peter for an hour, but he must come in at once if he cries.”

I got up in disgust.

“You’ve spoilt my morning,” I said.

“Oh, no!”

“I had a little secret from Dahlia, or rather Peter and I had a little secret together; at least, you and I and Peter had a secret. Anyhow, it was a secret. And I was feeling very wicked and happy–Peter and I both were; and we were going to let you feel wicked too. And now Dahlia knows all about the desperate deed we were planning, and, to make it worse, all she says is, ‘Certainly! By all means! Only don’t get his feet wet.’ Peter,” I said, as I bent over the sleeping innocent, “we are betrayed.”

“Miss Mannering will now relate her experiences,” said Myra. “I went into the hall to put down the flowers, and just as I was coming out I saw Dahlia in the corner with a book. And she said, ‘Tell your young man—-‘”

“How vulgar!” I interrupted.

“‘Do be careful with my baby.’ And I said in great surprise, ‘What baby?’ And she said, ‘He was very kindly running him up and down the drive just now. Peter loves it, but don’t let them go on too long or there may be an accident.’ And then she gave a few more instructions, and–here we are.”