“And she’s going to have her hair up next birthday,” he went on, “and
then she’ll be quite grown up. I’m a bit sorry it’s all off.”
He threw down the end of his cigarette, and looked round at the balcony
window.
“No,” I said, “it isn’t time for the magic-lantern yet. Half an hour or
so. And you’re almost sorry it’s all off?”
“Well, yes, in some ways,” he replied. “Of course, I get about more than
she does, you know. Men do see more life than girls, don’t they,
Butterfield? I went to a dance the other week, and of course Nellie
can’t go to dances yet. But the men were another set, you know, and the
women--well, it’s not much fun sitting out in a conservatory with
strange women, is it?”
I reserved my opinion on the point, and he went on. He got very
confidential, and by the time he had got through another cigarette he
had my views as to whether it was possible to keep a surreptitious wife
at Eton, whither he was to return shortly. I rather took to Master Ted,
and decided that Carrie and Bassishaw should not have _all_ the fun out
of the magic-lantern. I would willingly have prolonged the talk, but Ted
was glancing nervously at the window, and thought we really should go
in--the youngsters would need looking after.
We went in, in time to catch them playing some game with a closed door
and a piece of mistletoe. I saw no necessity for Carrie and Arthur
Bassishaw joining in, but join in they did, while Miss Nellie looked
intelligently patronising. Ted was right--women did grow up quickly. As
I took a seat beside her I heard Ted whisper to Carrie that her brother
was a brick.
“I hope you are having a good time, Nellie?” I said.
Nellie tossed her curls.
“Of course, real dances are more in your line,” I continued, “but you
can spare an evening for the children now and then.”
Nellie bit her lip; she felt the point keenly.
“I don’t go to dances, Mr. Butterfield,” she said stiffly.
“No?” I inquired blandly. “Well, some people _are_ prejudiced against
dancing. But I see no wrong in it myself. Do you regard dancing as
frivolous?”
She had to make the humiliating confession.
“I don’t know anything about it,” replied Nellie, turning half away. “I
am not allowed to go to dances.”
“Dear me!” I said; “motives of health, doubtless?”
“No, I’m not considered old enough.”
“Oh!” I said, in the tone of one who feels he has pushed his inquiries
too far. “That is a pity. There is such fun at dances--sitting out, you
know, and such things. You can’t have such fun anywhere else.”
Nellie looked a defiant “Couldn’t she, though,” and I considered my
young friend Ted’s affair as good as arranged. I heard her whisper to
Bassishaw later that Mr. Butterfield was a beast.
Carrie came bustling up to ask me to help in the preparations for the
magic-lantern; and shortly afterwards the light was down, and the great
white circle shifting and quivering on the sheet, to the whispering
anticipation of eager children. When, a few minutes later, I had taken
Chris Carmichael on my knee, and the pictures had begun, certain quiet
indications from the back told me that Master Ted was having a good
time. I couldn’t see the young monkeys at it, but I divined from the
brooding peace in that direction that they were hand in hand. Hand in
hand at least.
An hour later the place was quiet once more, and only Carrie, Bassishaw,
and myself were left, gathered round the cold magic-lantern. I looked at
it and shook my head. I had to do it three times before they noticed me.
“What is it now, Rol?” said Carrie.
“Sixteen next birthday,” I said to myself.
“What _are_ you talking about?”
“Used to drop him notes from her bedroom window,” I mused.
“Oh, do shake him, Arthur.”
Arthur shook me. I looked severely at them both.
“I suppose you know what you’ve done,” I said, “you and your
magic-lantern?”
They commenced a look of innocence, but I quelled them.
“If there is an elopement at your house shortly, Bassishaw,” I said,
“you can thank this children’s party. Don’t pretend you didn’t see
them.”
“I’m afraid, Butterfield, do you know, that they are mischievous young
beggars,” replied Bassishaw; “but it’s not our fault.”
“Not your fault!” I said, with rather a touch of scorn, I think, in my
voice; “not your fault! You bring overcharged adolescence together--you
know the moral laxity of sixteen--you know the latent depravity of
female sixteen especially--you provide them with a handy magic-lantern
and every convenience--and it’s not your fault! Well, I did my best to
dissuade you; you have only yourselves to thank. I wash my hands of all
consequences. Don’t blame me.”
It pleased me to throw the responsibility on someone else.
V