"Of course she does," said Mrs. Whiteoak, heartily. "She's a good girl. Believes what she ought to believe. And no nonsense. She's not a heathen. She's not a Jew. Not believe in the Virgin Birth? Never heard of such a thing in decent society. It's not respectable."
"Why talk of religion?" said Nicholas. "Tell us a story, Mamma. One of your stories, you know."
His mother cocked an eyebrow at him. Then, looking down her nose, she tried to remember a risqué story. She had had quite a store of these, but one by one they were slipping her memory.
"The one about the curate on his holiday," suggested Nicholas, like a dutiful son.
"Nick!" remonstrated Ernest.
"Yes, yes," said the old lady. "This curate had worked for years and years without a holiday. And—and—oh dear, what comes next?"
"Another curate," prompted Nicholas, "who was also overworked."
"I think the boys should go to bed," said Meg, nervously.
"She'll never remember it," replied Renny, with calm.
"Oh, Wakefield is playing with the Indian curios!" cried Meg. "Do stop him, Renny!"
Renny took the child forcibly from the cabinet, gave him a gentle cuff, and turned him toward the door. "Now, to bed," he ordered.
"Let him say good-night, first!" shouted Grandmother. "Poor little darling, he wants to kiss his Gran good-night."
Boney, disturbed from slumber, rocked on his perch and screamed in far-away nasal tones:—
"Ka butcha! Ka butcha! Haramzada!"
Wakefield made the rounds, distributing kisses and hugs with a nice gauging of the character of the recipient.
