“How nice!”
There was another pause; then she blurted out: “We church girls always wear Trinity colours at the boat-race.”
She hoped from her heart, this might lead him to say that he would look out for her there; but he did nothing of the kind. His answer was to the effect that this year they jolly well expected to knock Ormond into a cocked hat.
Lunch threatened to be formidable. To begin with, Laura, whose natural, easy frankness had by this time all but been successfully educated out of her, Laura was never shyer with strangers than at a meal, where every word you said could be listened to by a tableful of people. Then, too, her vis-à-vis was a small sharp child of five or six, called Thumbby, or Thumbkin, who only removed her bead-like eyes from Laura’s face to be saucy to her father. And, what was worse, the Uncle turned out to be a type that struck instant terror into Laura: a full-fledged male tease. He was, besides, very hairy of face, and preternaturally solemn.
No sooner had he drawn in his chair to the table than he began. Lifting his head and thrusting out his chin, he sniffed the air in all directions with a moving nose—just as a cat does. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Tilly, who sat next him, went pink.
“What is it, dear?” his wife at last inquired in a gentle voice; for it was evident that he was not going to stop till asked why he did it.
“Mos’ extraor’nary smell!” he replied. “Mother, d’you know, I could take my appledavy someone has been using my scent.”
“Nonsense, Tom.”
“Silly pa!” said the little girl.
Ramming his knuckles into his eyes, he pretended to cry at his daughter’s rebuke; then bore down on Laura.
“D’you know, Miss Ra … Ra … Rambotham”—he made as if he could not get her name out—“d’you know that I’m a great man for scent? Fact. I take a bath in it every morning.”
Laura smiled uncertainly, fixed always by the child.
“Fact, I assure you. Over the tummy, up to the chin. Now, who’s been at it? For it’s my opinion I shan’t have enough left to shampoo my eyebrows. Bob, is it you?”
“Don’t be an ass, pater.”
“Cut me some bread, Bob, please,” said Tilly hastily.
“Mos’ extraor’nary thing!” persisted the Uncle. “Or—good Lord, mother, can it be my monthly attack of D.T.’s beginning already? They’re not due, you know, till next week, Monday, five o’clock.”
“Dear, don’t be so silly. Besides it’s my scent, not yours. And anyone is welcome to it.”
“Well, well, let’s call in the cats!—By the way, Miss Ra … Ra … Rambotham, are you aware that this son of mine is a professed lady-killer?”
Laura and Bob went different shades of crimson.
“Why has she got so red?” the child asked her mother, in an audible whisper.
“Oh, chuck it, pater!” murmured Bob in disgust.
“Fact, I assure you. Put not your trust in Robert! He’s always on with the new love before he’s off with the old. You ask him whose glove he’s still cherishing in the pocket next his heart.”
Bob pushed his plate from him and, for a moment, seemed about to leave the table. Laura could not lift her eyes. Tilly chewed in angry silence.
Here, however, the child made a diversion.
“You’re a lady-kilda yourself, pa.”
“Me, Thumbkin?—Mother, d’you hear that?—Then it’s the whiskers, Thumbby. Ladies love whiskers—or a fine drooping moustache, like my son Bob’s.” He sang: “ ‘Oh, oh, the ladies loved him so!’ ”
“Tom, dear, do be quiet.”
“Tom, Tom, the piper’s son!” chirped Thumbby.
“Well, well, let’s call in the cats!”—which appeared to be his way of changing the subject.
It seemed, after this, as though the remainder of lunch might pass off without further hitch. Then however and all of a sudden, while he was peeling an apple, this dreadful man said, as though to himself: “Ra … Ra … Rambotham. Now where have I heard that name?”
“Wa … Wa … Wamboffam!” mocked Thumbkin.
“Monkey, if you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself!—Young lady, do you happen to come from Warrenega?” he asked Laura, when Thumbkin’s excited chirrup of: “I’ll cut you, pa, into little bits!” had died away.
Ready to sink through the floor, Laura replied that she did.
“Then I’ve the pleasure of knowing your mother. Tall dark woman, isn’t she?”
Under the table, Laura locked the palms of her hands and stemmed her feet against the floor. Was here, now, before them all, and Bob in particular, the shameful secret of the embroidery to come to light? She could hardly force her lips to frame an answer.
Her confusion was too patent to be overlooked. Above her lowered head, signs passed between husband and wife, and soon afterwards the family rose from the table.
But Tilly was so obviously sulky that the tease could not let her escape him thus.
He cried: “For God’s sake, Tilly, stand still! What on earth have you got on your back?”
Tilly came from upcountry and her thoughts leapt fearfully to scorpions and tarantulas. Affrighted, she tried to peer over her shoulder, and gave a preliminary shriek. “Gracious!—whatever is it?”
“Hold on!” He approached her with the tongs; the next moment to ejaculate: “Begad, it’s not a growth, it’s a bustle!” and as he spoke he tweaked the place where a bustle used to be worn.
Even Bob had to join in the ensuing boo-hoo, which went on and on till Laura thought the Uncle would fall down in a fit. Then for the third time he invited those present to join him in summoning the cats, murmured something about “humping his bluey,” and went out into the hall, where they heard him swinging Thumbby “round the world.”
It was all the Aunt could do to mollify Tilly, who was enraged to the point of tears. “I’ve never worn a bustle in my life! Uncle’s a perfect fool! I’ve never met such a fool as he is!”
Still boiling, she disappeared to nurse her ruffled temper in private; and she remained absent from the room for over half an hour. During this time Laura and
