Nothing, I have remarked, can stir her demonstrative nature so much as
the sight of Henry and me arrayed in all the glory of evening attire.
The merest glimpse of my georgette theatre gown, or the chaste folds of
Henry's tie, scintillating collar and shirt front send her flying to us
with hands that fondle and lips that cling. If we repel her and
compromise by kissing the middle of her head, she has a way of giving
us haunting looks that, after we have sallied forth to the halls of
pleasure, can make us feel uncomfortable for the entire evening.
'Yes, when The Kid is grown up,' Henry went on, 'perhaps she'll have
the success that has been denied to us, old girl.'
I was about to reply when my attention was arrested by a confused
murmur of voices in the hall. I distinguished Elizabeth's, and as the
other was a man's tones, I supposed she was having a little badinage at
the side door with one of the tradesmen, as is her wont. As in time it
did not die away, but began to get a little more heated (one voice
appearing to be raised in entreaty and the other, Elizabeth's, in
protest), I thought I had better saunter out and interrupt the
causerie. Elizabeth has occasionally to be reminded of her work in
this manner. She is too fond of gossiping.
I opened the door ostentatiously and sallied out--just in time to see
Elizabeth playfully pulling William by the beard. 'You get them
whiskers orf--narsty, rarspin' things,' she was saying.
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