I could not help smiling as I rang Mrs. Kit Carmichael’s bell. It wanted
a good hour to calling time, and I was sure to arrive in that
embarrassing period of the afternoon when morning attire is being
exchanged for the tea-gown, and the indiscreet visitor is left to
meditate on the hollowness of social obligations in an empty
drawing-room. It is an hour I take a peculiar delight in. I like to see
the piano before Schubert’s songs have replaced the thumbed
exercise-book, and to divine midday practisings, scarcely over, by young
ladies lanky in stocking, with surreptitious chewing-gum in their
pockets. It has still the charm that “going behind” had for me in my
early theatrical days.
I had made some masculine pretext for leaving Carrie behind, and she was
to follow later. I had a small reason of my own for wishing to see Mrs.
Kit alone.
Mrs. Kit’s maid admitted me. That young person always seems inclined to
laugh when she sees me. I swear I have never encouraged her.
The drawing-room door was opened to me, but I walked past it, beckoned
by a distant sound of childish romping, and a young mother’s call of
“Come here, Chris.” I made all the noise in my approach that pretended
stealth demanded; I am delicate in my freedom.
Now, that is a part that needs a nice discrimination in the true
performing of it. Intimacy has no severer test. Show me the indiscreet
bachelor friend whose title falls short, be it only by a syllable, of
the full warranty, and I will show you a man who shall wait for
invitations, and to whom the fiery sword of “not at home” shall be
displayed. The young wife in particular is apt to be touchy.
My approach had been heard, and a subdued scuffling subsided as I
entered the half-open nursery door. Mrs. Kit had a maid, and had at one
time kept a nurse; but the nurse had gracefully relinquished the
engagement on finding she had _two_ children in charge, the grown-up one
scarcely more manageable than the chubby little imp who bore his
father’s name. Consequently, Master Christopher occupied a good deal of
his mother’s time, and was in a fair way for being spoiled.
This young gentleman of four hailed me with a shout, and childish glee
in his scantiness of garment; while his mother, rosy and bright with
romping, did her best to look crossly on my intrusion. Mrs. Carmichael
always keeps up an appearance of formality, even with me.
“Mr. Butterfield, how dare you come into my nursery!”
“Mrs. Carmichael,” I replied, “I came to have a talk with your son in
the matter of a certain giant in whom we are both interested. Perhaps
you yourself would care----”
“Chris shall not hear any story till he has his pinafore on. It is as
well you are a bachelor, Mr. Butterfield. You would spoil the best child
in the world.”
“Unless I am mistaken, Mrs. Kit,” I answered, “you yourself were playing
the part of a bear when I entered. Does one hunt bears without a
pinafore?”
“I am his mother, and have to amuse him--judiciously!” returned Mrs.
Carmichael. “You don’t know what a responsibility children are, Mr.
Butterfield.”
“I appreciate your feelings, madam,” I replied. “I remember in my youth
I kept white mice. Now, white mice----”
“White fiddlesticks,” said Mrs. Kit. “A bachelor has absolutely no idea
of what trouble children are. They take the whole of your time--they are
constantly to be watched--you never know what mischief they are up to.”
“I kept _four_ white mice, Mrs. Carmichael, with power to add. You have
only one----”
“Oh, but Chris _is_ so mischievous! He’s so full of spirits. Scarcely an
hour since he _nearly_ broke his neck trying to climb a handrail, under
the impression it was a beanstalk--that was one of _your_ stories, Mr.
Butterfield,--and last night he managed to get Simple Simon into his
prayers.”