I had
telegraphed to her from Southampton. She was expensively dressed in grey
silk, and wore the family diamonds. We exchanged the family kiss and the
usual incoherent greetings of our race. She expressed her delight at my
restoration to health and gave me satisfactory tidings of Tom Durrell,
her husband, of the children, and of our sister Jane. Then she shook her
head at me, and made me feel like a naughty little boy. This I resented.
Being the head of the family, I had always encouraged the deferential
attitude which my sisters, dear right-minded things, had naturally
assumed from babyhood.
"Oh, Simon, what a time you've given us!"
She had never spoken to me like this in her life.
"That's nothing, my dear Agatha," said I just a bit tartly, "to the
time I've given myself. I'm sorry for you, but I think you ought to be a
little sorry for me."
"I am. More sorry than I can say. Oh, Simon, how could you?"
"How could I what?" I cried, unwontedly regardless of the refinements of
language.
"Mix yourself up in this dreadful affair?"
"My dear girl," said I, "if you had got mixed up in a railway collision,
I shouldn't ask you how you managed to do it.
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