Ian Hay

“ If one takes porridge actually at breakfast, it cramps one’s style for the remainder of the meal; whereas if one takes it now, and then goes up to dress, it gives the porridge time to shake down, and so clears the track for more delectable fare.’
‘It must be an awful thing,’ said Denny, smoothing his hair at the mirror over the mantelpiece, ‘to go through life soliloquising about food. And why don’t you sit down when you eat?’
Leo, impervious to these criticisms, continued to stand at the sideboard, gulping down porridge and cream with a tablespoon. ”

“ Molly, in the regulation blue serge and coloured hat-ribbon of schoolgirldom, approached her grand uncle with solemn eyes. Her hands were behind her back. Joan, noticing, uttered a sisterly groan.
‘Will you write your name in my autograph book, please, Uncle Tony?’ The words came with a rush.
‘With pleasure.’
‘The pestilential nuisances who write for autographs;
All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs;
All children who—’
Joan caught her mother’s eye. ”

“ Meanwhile, Molly’s mop-head had approached close to Sir Anthony’s, and her gruff little voice was unfolding the mysteries of the autograph book.
‘Don’t write on those pages: they’re only for girls, you know. Write on this one, or that. The pink is the nicest, I think. No, not on that: that’s Lord Roberts’s page.’
‘Where did you catch Lord Roberts?’ asked Uncle Tony, contending with Molly’s fountain pen, which was playing freely.
‘I met him when I was quite little—’
‘And what are you now?’ Needless to say, the question came from the sofa. ”

“ Perhaps that was why the responsibility of steering an Indian Province through all the swirling uncertainties of the War years had left so little mark upon him. Anyhow, here he was home again, unfeignedly refreshed by the company of his niece and her stimulating family. ”

“ Even when they are not, they like to think they are. But I know how you feel. You and Master Denny are modern, and you chafe under Apron Strings—eh?’
Joan nodded her head.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘And Ancestors.’
‘They are much the same thing.’
Joan nodded her head again.
‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Do talk to Mother about them. Here she is. Hallo, Mum! Has your favourite child departed at last?’
‘Isn’t that a shame?’ asked Mildred of Sir Anthony. ‘They know I have no favourites in this house hold ”

“ The guilty Simmons set down Denny and his silver frame as if they had been red-hot, and made a dive for the empty porridge bowl of Leo Bagby, which reposed upon a chair near by. Joan Cradock entered—cool, summery, nineteen—radiant youth personified. She was smoking the pre-breakfast cigarette affected by this sophisticated generation.
‘Has the post come yet, Simmons?’ she inquired.
‘Yes, Miss,’ replied that quaking damsel. ‘It’s nearly all for Mr. Denis this morning. This’—she indicated the tobacco jar—‘is from all of us downstairs.’
‘I call that very nice of you,’ said Joan. ‘Mr. ”

“ Denny rose and punched his friend playfully in the diaphragm. He was a lusty youth, a full head taller now than Leo, and he no longer cherished any of his ancient respect for the latter’s not inconsiderable sinews.
‘Come and dress,’ he continued. ‘We’re going for a picnic lunch up Ripleigh Reach, for Uncle Tony’s benefit.’
‘Ah, the old boy from India? A trip on the river will do his liver a bit of no good. I enjoyed meeting him again last night: we had quite a long conversation. Really a very intelligent old fellow!’
With these gracious and amiable words, Mr. ”