There was only one way out of it. I began to sing a carol in a very shrill voice.
All the artist rose in Margery.
"Don"t sing," she said hurriedly; "Margie sing. What shall Margie sing, uncle?"
Before I could suggest anything she was off. It was a scandalous song.
She began by announcing that she wanted to be among the boys, and (antic.i.p.ating my objections) a.s.sured me that it was no good kicking up a noise, because it was no fun going out when there weren"t any boys about, you were so lonely-onely-onely....
Here the tune became undecided; and, a chance word recalling another context to her mind, she drifted suddenly into a hymn, and sang it with the same religious fervour as she had sung the other, her fair head flung back, and her hazel eyes gazing into Heaven....
I listened carefully. This was a bit I didn"t recognise.... The tune wavered for a moment ... and out of it these words emerged triumphant--
"Talk of me to the boys you meet, Remember me kindly to Regent Street, And give them my love in the----"
"What"s "at, uncle?"
"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle"s nose."
"What"s----"
By the way, would you like it all over again? No? Oh, very well.
V. AFTERNOON SLEEP
["_In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon._"]
I am like Napoleon in that I can go to sleep at any moment; I am unlike him (I believe) in that I am always doing so. One makes no apology for doing so on Sunday afternoon; the apology indeed should come from the others, the wakeful parties....
"Uncle!"
"Margery."
"Will you come and play wiv me?"
"I"m rather busy just now," I said with closed eyes. "After tea."
"Why are you raver busy just now? My baby"s only raver busy sometimes."
"Well then, you know what it"s like; how important it is that one shouldn"t be disturbed."
"But you _must_ be beturbed when I ask you to come and play wiv me."
"Oh, well ... what shall we play at?"
"Trains," said Margery eagerly.
When we play at trains I have to be a tunnel. I don"t know if you have ever been a tunnel? No; well, it"s an over-rated profession.
"We won"t play trains," I announced firmly, "because it"s Sunday."
"Why not because it"s Sunday?"
(Oh, you little pagan!)
"Hasn"t Mummy told you about Sunday?"
"Oh, yes, Maud did tell me," said Margery casually. Then she gave an innocent little smile. "Oh, I called Mummy Maud," she said in pretended surprise. "I quite _fought_ I was upstairs!"
I hope you follow. The manners and customs of good society must be observed on the ground floor where visitors may happen; upstairs one relaxes a little.
"Do you know," Margery went on with the air of a discoverer, "you mustn"t say "prayers" downstairs. Or "corsets.""
"I never do," I affirmed. "Well, anyhow I never will again."
"Why mayn"t you?"
"I don"t know," I said sleepily.
"Say prehaps."
"Well--_prehaps_ it"s because your mother tells you not to."
"Well, "at"s a _silly_ fing to say," said Margery scornfully.
"It is. I"m thoroughly ashamed of it. I apologise. Good night." And I closed my eyes again....
"I fought you were going to play wiv me, Mr. Bingle," sighed Margery to herself.
"My name is not Bingle," I said, opening one eye.
"Why isn"t it Bingle?"
"The story is a very long and sad one. When I wake up I will tell it to you. Good night."
"Tell it to me now."
There was no help for it.
"Once upon a time," I said rapidly, "there was a man called Bingle, Oliver Bingle, and he married a lady called Pringle. And his brother married a lady called Jingle; and his other brother married a Miss Wingle. And his cousin remained single.... That is all."
"Oh, I see," said Margery doubtfully. "Now will you play wiv me?"
How can one resist the pleading of a young child?