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  ‘It is a poor position not to be entitled just to that,’ said Graham, with a faint smile. ‘Think what Grandpa is entitled to!’

  ‘I do not envy him,’ said Daniel.

  ‘You mean he is old and you are young,’ said Graham, looking into his brother’s face. ‘You think he will soon die. But he sees his death as too far distant to count. So that takes away your advantage.’

  ‘He can’t think he is a god.’

  ‘We have done what we can to foster the belief. And I have almost come to accept it.’

  ‘He insists that we shall do so,’ said Daniel.

  ‘That is the way to make himself into one. And I feel he has succeeded.’

  ‘He thinks that youth is a time for mischief and the concealment of it,’ said Daniel. ‘I expect he remembers that it is. And he knows that mischief costs money.’

  ‘I have heard him observe that everything does that,’ said Graham.

  ‘The inheritance must vanish with so much division,’ said Daniel. ‘Father is the last to anticipate it. I am a poor sort of eldest son. Grandpa rightly despises me.’

  ‘Father says he will not see the time when it is gone,’ said Graham, smiling. ‘By claiming extinction for himself, he puts any experience of life in a favourable light.’

  ‘He does not think he is immortal, as Grandpa does.’

  ‘He does not need to yet. He has too good a span of life before him.’

  ‘The girls will share equally with us,’ said Daniel. ‘There is not enough for anything else.’

  ‘I see you do not think that Father is immortal.’

  ‘I feel that I am, and that I shall have to support myself through that eternity.’

  ‘And you think you will do it by coming out high on college lists.’

  ‘Well, what are your own anticipations?’

  ‘They are of an uneasy nature,’ said Graham. ‘I tell myself that the time of reckoning will be short; and I know that is said when things are very bad. But I would not change my last three years for yours.’

  ‘The moments to be exchanged are not yet.’

  ‘Moments instead of years. I hold to my opinion. And when people hold to things, they have not always lost them. Most great men have failed at the university.’

  ‘I do not miss the implication. But other kinds of men have done the same.’

  ‘What are you discussing?’ said Eleanor, coming into the hall.

  ‘Our own prospects,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Do you think you have good ones?’ said Eleanor, while Luce walked up with a noiseless step, and placing her hand on her mother’s shoulder, followed her eyes.

  Eleanor had ambitions for her sons, and found herself assailed by doubts whether they were justified. She felt the position to be difficult for her, but had no uneasiness lest it might be the same for them.

  ‘If not, what have we?’ said Daniel.

  ‘You will make your mother proud of you?’ said Eleanor, who saw her preference for her eldest son as simple tribute to him.

  ‘I believe you see it as a discredit to me, that I have not won your interest in equal measure,’ said Graham.

  Eleanor looked at him in faint surprise.

  ‘Do you think your ability is equal to Daniel’s?’

  ‘Yes, but different in kind.’

  ‘Any sign of self-respect is a good thing,’ said Daniel. ‘The respect of others may follow.’

  ‘I think it often comes first,’ said his brother.

  ‘Mother,’ said Luce, looking after the two young men, ‘do you know that you treat those boys quite differently?’

  ‘A mother often has an especial feeling for her eldest son.’

  ‘Isn’t that hard on the second one? It does not follow that he is inferior.’

  ‘He does not think he is,’ said Eleanor, in a tone of seeing a new light on the position. ‘So it has not had much effect on him.’

  ‘It may have had the more for that, Mother.’

  ‘I must try to be more impartial. I see that Graham has developed a good deal lately.’

  ‘Mother, you do honestly try to put right anything that is wrong,’ said Luce, looking at Eleanor with gentle appraisement.

  ‘I know you think my heart is in the right place,’ said Eleanor, with a note of dryness.

  ‘And why is that a poor compliment? It is the most fundamental of all things, in the sense that nothing counts without it.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why we never hear that a heart is anywhere else.’

  ‘Mother – you are a truer parent of your sons than you know,’ said Luce, going into silent laughter, with her eyes on Eleanor.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Hatton in a big bed, Nevill in a little bed,’ said Nevill Sullivan surveying the scene of which he spoke.

  ‘Lie still and go to sleep,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Hatton get up,’ said Nevill, in a tone of agreement.

  ‘Shut your eyes and try to sleep.’

  ‘Shut his eyes,’ said Nevill, keeping them shut with a trembling of the lids.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of me while I dress.’

  ‘Watch Hatton,’ said Nevill, turning on his side with the purpose.

  ‘Now you are wide awake. You must rest until I am ready. You went to sleep very late.’

  ‘As late as Hatton.’

  ‘Yes, nearly as late.’

  ‘As late as Hatton,’ said Nevill, on a higher note.

  ‘Yes, as late as that. That means you are tired this morning.’

  ‘He is tired,’ said Nevill, leaning back on his pillows.

  ‘Here are Honor and Gavin coming to see you.’

  ‘No,’ said Nevill, in a tone of repudiating the prospect.

  ‘Don’t you want to see them?’

  ‘No. Just Hatton and Nevill.’

  ‘They have come to say good-morning.’

  Nevill looked his question of this purpose, and his brother and sister ran into the room at a halt in their morning toilet, followed by a nursemaid baulked in her intention of completing it. The girl was a solid, lively-looking child of ten, with a fair, oval face, observant, grey eyes made smaller by the roundness of her cheeks, thick bright hair, small hands and feet, and a benevolent, interested, rather complacent expression. Her brother was a ponderous, drab-coloured boy a year younger, with blunter features and large, pale, steady eyes; and Nevill was a brown-eyed, flaxen-haired child of three, with an ambition to continue in his infancy and meet the treatment accorded to it.

  ‘He is tired this morning,’ he said, looking at the others with an eye at once pathetic and observant. ‘He went to sleep as late as Hatton.’

  ‘And what does that signify?’ said Honor, giving a spring.

  Gavin looked at her and followed her example, the method by which he gave the normal amount of activity to his life.

  ‘They shake the room,’ said Nevill, uneasily, to Hatton.

  Honor and Gavin leapt about the floor, less damped by Hatton’s indifference than spurred by the nursemaid’s protests. Bertha Mullet was a freckled, healthy-looking girl of twenty-two, with eyes and hair and brows of the same fox-red colour, and something foxlike in the moulding of her face. She would sometimes push up her cheeks towards her eyes, and entertain the children with a representation of this creature, regarding the power as a simple asset, and supported in the view by Honor and Gavin, and more dubiously by Nevill, who found the performance realistic. Emma Hatton was a short, square woman of an age which had never been revealed, but revealed itself as about fifty-five, with a square, dark face, large, kind hands, deep, small, dark eyes, stiff, iron-grey hair, and a look of superiority, which was recognized and justified. She was a farmer’s daughter, who saw the training of children as her vocation and therefore pursued it. Honor and Gavin regarded her as the centre of their world, and Nevill expended on her the force of a nature diverted by nobody else. Her assistant looked up to her and bowed to her rule, but found in Honor a more equal, indeed a completely
equal companionship.

  ‘Leap into the air,’ chanted Honor, proceeding by this method round the room.

  Gavin repeated the words and the action.

  ‘Leap into the air,’ said Nevill to Hatton, in a tone that made his words a request to be assisted to follow the example.

  ‘No, you must rest a little longer.’

  ‘He must rest,’ said Nevill, in an explanatory tone to the others.

  ‘Why don’t you think of something to do yourself, Master Gavin?’ said Mullet, who had viewed the proceedings with a serious eye.

  ‘Because I don’t want to,’ said Gavin, giving an extra jump, by way of displaying a certain initiative.

  ‘He will think of something,’ said Nevill, nodding to Hatton in encouragement upon his own future.

  ‘How old are you, Hatton?’ said Honor, in an incidental tone.

  ‘Older than you, but not a hundred,’ said Hatton, automatically.

  ‘Hatton is a hundred,’ said Nevill, with pride. ‘Not yet, but very soon.’

  ‘Here is the mistress on the stairs! Here is your mother come to say good morning to you,’ said Mullet, in a rather bustling manner.

  Honor began to fasten her garments, as if to be employed would give a better impression; Mullet drew her towards her and took the task into her own hands; Hatton and Nevill were unaffected; and Gavin’s unconcern was so marked that it became a positive condition.

  ‘Well, my little ones,’ said the voice that hardly varied with the people it addressed, ‘so you are back from the sea. Did you have a happy time? Are you tired after your journey? Is no one going to answer me?’

  Nevill laid hold of Hatton’s dress and raised eyes of disapprobation and apprehension to her face.

  ‘Are you coming to kiss me, my boy?’ said Eleanor.

  Gavin approached and suffered an embrace, and Honor followed his example.

  ‘It was a pity I had to be out last night. It was a dull homecoming for you. I wish I could have helped it.’

  ‘Mother couldn’t help it,’ said Nevill, in a condoning manner.

  ‘We had Grandma,’ said Gavin.

  ‘But that was not the same,’ said his mother.

  ‘No, it was different.’

  ‘It was better, wasn’t it?’ said Nevill, in an obliging tone.

  ‘Honor kissed me, as well as letting me kiss her, Gavin,’ said Eleanor.

  Gavin did not answer, and his mother turned to Nevill’s bed, as though she felt it hardly fitting that he should receive her under such conditions.

  ‘Is anything the matter with him, Hatton?’

  ‘He is only tired, madam. He went to sleep very late.’

  ‘As late as Hatton,’ said Nevill.

  ‘Was he not in bed at the usual time?’

  ‘We were at home too late for that, madam. And he could not sleep in a strange room.’

  ‘A strange room? It is his own night nursery.’

  ‘Yes, but he had forgotten it.’

  ‘He had forgotten it,’ Nevill explained to his mother.

  ‘Could not someone sit with him?’

  ‘Mullet and I were unpacking, madam. And no one else would have done.’

  ‘No one but Hatton,’ said Nevill.

  ‘He hardly looks as if he had been to the sea.’

  ‘People would not look different,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Hatton did sit with him for a little while,’ said Nevill, more in condonation of Hatton than in information to his mother.

  ‘Don’t cover your face, dear,’ said the latter, drawing down the clothes.

  ‘No,’ said Nevill, in a sharper tone, pulling them back.

  ‘You will not be able to breathe properly.’

  ‘He never breathes,’ said Nevill, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Isn’t he growing rather a wilful little boy?’

  ‘He is tired, as you say, madam. He will soon be himself.’

  ‘Mother didn’t say so,’ said Gavin.

  ‘You had better keep him in bed,’ said Eleanor, suggesting an uncongenial course both for Hatton and her son.

  ‘He will get up now, madam, and rest before his dinner.’

  ‘In his little bed,’ said Nevill, and changed his tone the next moment. ‘Get up now.’

  ‘Then I will go downstairs and come up when they are up and dressed.’

  ‘We are up now,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Will you come again to see us?’ said Nevill, leaning out of the bed to take hold of his mother’s skirt and raise his eyes to her face.

  ‘Yes, of course Mother will come to see her little boy.’

  ‘Now she has gone,’ said Nevill, in a satisfied tone, as the door closed.

  ‘Oh, and you said you wanted her to come again,’ said Mullet, with reproach.

  ‘Nevill fawns on people,’ said Honor.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said Nevill. ‘He won’t marry Honor when he is grown-up.’

  Nevill’s consistent use of the third person for himself suggested a cultivation of infantine habit.

  ‘You can’t marry your sister,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He can marry who he wants to. And he will marry Hatton.’

  ‘Hatton and Nevill are engaged!’ said Honor, with more contempt for the condition than for the unsuitability of the parties.

  ‘Hatton will like it,’ said Nevill.

  ‘Why can’t brothers and sisters marry?’ said Gavin.

  ‘Because they have to start a family,’ said his sister. ‘If they married people in the same one, there would never be any new ones. But they can live together.’

  ‘Do they have any children then?’

  ‘I don’t think they do so often. But they can adopt some.’

  ‘He will be your little boy,’ promised Nevill in full comprehension.

  ‘Nevill is one of the baser creatures,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He isn’t,’ said Nevill, clutching at Hatton’s skirt and pointing to his brother. ‘He is the same as him.’

  ‘If people knew we had a baser creature, we should be prosecuted,’ said Honor.

  ‘What is prosecuted?’ said Gavin.

  ‘Put in prison.’

  ‘They will be put in prison,’ said Nevill, in a comfortable tone to Hatton. ‘It is because they don’t like him to be best.’

  ‘Why should we mind what he is?’ said Gavin.

  ‘I wish you did not mind so much,’ said Hatton, causing Mullet some amusement. ‘It is past the time for your breakfast. Nevill must come in his dressing-gown.’

  ‘Not much appetite,’ said Nevill, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘You will eat like a baser creature,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He was sick in the train,’ said Nevill, disposing of the suggestion.

  ‘So was Honor.’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ said Nevill to Hatton, indicating his brother.

  ‘No, Gavin was my choice at that moment,’ said Hatton.

  ‘No, he was,’ said Nevill, clutching at her arm and speaking in reference to what had taken place.

  ‘We were all rather uncivilized,’ said Honor.

  ‘He was too,’ said Nevill, nodding.

  ‘You are three children come back to your home after a period of exile,’ said Mullet, speaking as if she were beginning a tale.

  ‘We haven’t got a home,’ said Gavin. ‘This home is Grandpa’s. It is because we are poor.’

  ‘You are not,’ said Mullet, in a sharper tone.

  ‘Mother said we were.’

  ‘That sort of poorness in your kind of family is different.’

  ‘It is better, isn’t it?’ said Nevill, in a consoling tone.

  ‘It is considered superior to the money of ordinary people.’

  ‘Why aren’t we ordinary?’ said Honor.

  ‘You are, until you prove you are not,’ said Hatton.

  ‘Youngest are best,’ said Nevill.

  ‘You won’t be the youngest, if there is another baby,’ said Honor.

  Nevill r
egarded her for a moment.

  ‘He will,’ he said.

  ‘That can be his distinction for the present,’ said Hatton, leaving the table on some errand.

  ‘I do think Hatton does talk beautifully,’ said Mullet, in a tone that seemed a reproach to the existing social order. ‘As pointed and as finished as any lady.’

  ‘Pointed?’ said Gavin.

  ‘To the point,’ said Honor.

  ‘Hatton does it, doesn’t she?’ said Nevill, looking up into Mullet’s face.

  ‘Now we must not let time steal a march on us,’ said Hatton, returning and using a rather conscious tone.

  ‘Why mustn’t we?’ said Nevill. ‘Why mustn’t we, Hatton?’

  ‘There is a lot to be done by tomorrow, when the new governess comes.’

  ‘Not for him is she coming?’

  ‘Not for you as much as the others. You will go in for half an hour.’

  ‘She will like him, won’t she, when he goes in?’

  ‘Nevill says she will like him!’ said Honor.

  ‘I daresay she will at this stage,’ said Hatton. ‘It is later that the crux comes.’

  ‘Crux?’ said Gavin.

  ‘Crisis,’ said his sister.

  ‘Hatton will come and fetch him,’ said Nevill.

  ‘I have had two governesses,’ said Honor. ‘I know the tricks of the trade.’

  ‘Yes, you know, we know them,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He doesn’t want to,’ said Nevill.

  ‘And the nature of the beasts,’ said Honor.

  ‘And the snares of the way and the obstacles of the race and all of it,’ said Hatton, in an easy, rapid tone, keeping her eyes from Mullet and her hands employed. ‘But that does not prevent you from attending to your breakfast.’

  ‘It does do it,’ said Nevill, putting his hand on her arm. ‘It does, Hatton.’

  Eleanor’s voice came again at the door.

  ‘Well, are you happy to be at home? Have you begun to feel brighter for your time at the sea?’ she said, with a suggestion that this reaction had as yet been prevented in her children.

  It seemed to her that it was still delayed.

  ‘I think they do look better, Hatton. Honor was well before, but the boys were too thin. Now tell me how you enjoyed your holiday. Did you like it, Honor dear?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mother.’

  ‘Haven’t you any more to say about it than that? Why, you went to the sea, and had rooms taken for you, and Hatton and Mullet there to take care of you, and had three weeks in a lovely place by the sands and waves. Now didn’t you enjoy it all, and find it a treat?’