so miserable, Syd, I’m so miserable. If only Walter were different.’
‘Well, he isn’t—and he never will be. You must just make up your mind to it, Myra. You’ve married a fellow who’s a bit of a Don Jooan—and you’ve got to try and take a broadminded view of it. You’re fond of the chap. Kiss and make friends—that’s what I say. We’re none of us perfect. Give and take—that’s the thing to remember—give and take.’
His sister continued to weep quietly.
‘Marriage is a ticklish business,’ went on Uncle Sydney in a ruminative voice. ‘Women are too good for us, not a doubt of it.’
‘I suppose,’ said Myra in a tearful voice. ‘One ought to forgive and forgive—again and again.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Women are angels and men aren’t, and women have got to make allowances. Always have had to and always will.’
Myra’s sobs grew less. She was seeing herself now in the role of the forgiving angel.
‘It isn’t as if I didn’t do everything I could,’ she sobbed. ‘I run the house and I’m sure nobody could be a more devoted mother.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘And that’s a fine youngster of yours. I wish Carrie and I had a boy. Four girls—it’s a bit thick. Still as I always say to her: “Better luck next time, old girl.” We both feel sure it’s going to be a boy this time.’
Myra was diverted.
‘I didn’t know. When is it?’
‘June.’
‘How is Carrie?’
‘Suffering a bit with her legs—swelled, you know. But she manages to get about a fair amount. Why, hallo, here’s that young shaver. How long have you been here, my boy?’
‘Oh, a long time,’ said Vernon. ‘I was here when you came in.’
‘You’re so quiet,’ complained his uncle. ‘Not like your cousins. I’m sure the racket they make is almost too much to bear sometimes. What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘It’s an engine,’ said Vernon.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘It’s a milk cart!’
Vernon was silent.
‘Hey,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Isn’t it a milk cart?’
‘No,’ said Vernon. ‘It’s an engine.’
‘Not a bit of it. It’s a milk cart. That’s funny, isn’t it? You say it’s an engine and I say it’s a milk cart. I wonder which of us is right?’
Since Vernon knew that he was, it seemed hardly necessary to reply.
‘He’s a solemn child,’ said Uncle Sydney turning to his sister. ‘Never sees a joke. You know, my boy, you’ll have to get used to being teased at school.’
‘Shall I?’ said Vernon, who couldn’t see what that had to do with it.
‘A boy who can take teasing with a laugh, that’s the sort of boy who gets on in the world,’ said Uncle Sydney and jingled his money again, stimulated by a natural association of ideas.
Vernon stared at him thoughtfully.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing,’ said Vernon.
‘Take your engine on the terrace, dear,’ said Myra.
Vernon obeyed.
‘Now I wonder how much that little chap took in of what we were talking about?’ said Sydney to his sister.
‘Oh, he wouldn’t understand. He’s too little.’
‘H’m,’ said Sydney. ‘I don’t know. Some children take in a lot—my Ethel does. But then she’s a very wide awake child.’
‘I don’t think Vernon ever notices anything,’ said Myra. ‘It’s rather a blessing in some ways.’
‘Mummy?’ said Vernon later. ‘What’s going to happen in June?’
‘In June, darling?’
‘Yes—what you and Uncle Sydney were talking about.’
‘Oh! that—’ Myra was momentarily discomposed. ‘Well, you see—it’s a great secret—’
‘Yes?’ said Vernon eagerly.
‘Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie hope that in June they will have a dear little baby boy. A boy cousin for you.’
‘Oh,’ said Vernon, disappointed. ‘Is that all?’
After a minute or two, he said:
‘Why are Aunt Carrie’s legs swelled?’
‘Oh, well—you see—she has been rather over-tired lately.’
Myra dreaded more questions. She tried to remember what she and Sydney had actually said.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Do Uncle Sydney and Aunt Carrie want to have a baby boy?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then why do they wait till June? Why don’t they have it now?’
‘Because, Vernon, God knows best. And God wants them to have it in June.’
‘That’s a long time to wait,’ said Vernon. ‘If I were God I’d send people things at once, as soon as they wanted them.’
‘You mustn’t be blasphemous, dear,’ said Myra gently.
Vernon was silent. But he was puzzled. What was blasphemous? He rather thought that it was the same word Cook had used speaking of her brother. She had said he was a most—something—man and hardly ever touched a drop! She had spoken as though such an attitude was highly commendable. But evidently Mummy didn’t seem to think the same about it.
Vernon added an extra prayer that evening to his usual petition of ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy and makemeagooboy armen.’
‘Dear God,’ he prayed. ‘Will you send me a puppy in June—or July would do if you are very busy.’
‘Now why in June?’ said Miss Robbins. ‘You are a funny little boy. I should have thought you would have wanted the puppy now.’
‘That would be blamafous,’ said Vernon and eyed her reproachfully.
Suddenly the world became very exciting. There was a
