“An inherited irreligious tendency,” I replied. “He’s probably got that
from his father. I remember Kit----”
“Rubbish! It’s just pure animal spirits. Chris is getting so big and
strong--_and_ noisy,” she added, as Chris broke away with the shout of
pagan infancy.
“In that case, Mrs. Carmichael,” I answered, “a reducing diet of
cinder-tea, judiciously administered----”
“Cinder-tea? What do _you_ know about cinder-tea?--Chris, put your arm
through here--a bachelor talking about cinder-tea!”
The arrogance of these young married ladies! They are all alike. You may
have seen scores of such pretty innocents installed in their first
establishments. You may have known their existences from the time they
played peg-top with their brothers to their perky airs over their first
long frocks. You may have given them away amid rice and slippers at the
rate of two a year, when their bridal blushes almost made your task
superfluous. You may have known them from teething-ring to trousseau,
from measles to marriage; and yet in the first wonder of a new baby life
you will be told that you are an ignorant old bachelor, and that you
know nothing of household affairs!
But I was not disposed to take any such talk from Mrs. Kit Carmichael. I
was too old a friend of Carmichael’s, and could always make her tingle
with curiosity by an artful hint of pre-nuptial reminiscence. Besides
which, she herself was too much in my power. Distinctly, I had a right
to rebuke her. I leaned back, and questioned her with forensic severity.
“Mrs. Carmichael,” I said, “you are young, but that is no excuse for
ingratitude. Five years ago my advice was not superfluous. Whose
experience was it selected you this little house, when Kit’s mind was
too full of love to distinguish such details as sanitary arrangements?”
“I believe you gave some advice on the subject, Mr. Butterfield,” she
retorted, “and we had workmen about the place for six months.”
I waived the thanklessness of the last phrase, and continued with
dignity.
“Who put you through an exhaustive course of salads, Mrs. Carmichael?”
“Well, you _were_ rather useful in the matter of salads,” she admitted
reluctantly.
“Who gave you lessons in the refinements of black coffee?” I continued,
warming in a righteous cause.
“My coffee was not bad,” Mrs. Kit returned, on her defence.
I magnanimously put aside criticism of her coffee, and went on with a
wave of my hand.
“To whom did you come for counsel on distemper and wall decoration and
tapestry hanging? Who told you to cast on at the bottom in mending
stocking knees? Who explained to you the principle of the chimney
draught, the law of ventilation, and the mechanics of the picture-cord?
Answer me, Mrs. Carmichael.”
She combed Master Chris’s hair vigorously and made no response. I saw
the victory of a just rebuke within my grasp. I made one more thrust.
“And, finally, Mrs. Carmichael, have you made the treacle puffs you
promised for my next visit?”
She yielded.
“Oh, I am _so_ sorry, Mr. Butterfield, but they were a failure. I put
them into the oven, and all the treacle ran, and made, oh, such a mess!”
I leaned back with the magnanimity of a conqueror, and in that moment
lost the battle. Carrie stood in the doorway.
“Treacle puffs, Rollo!” she said. “Of course they run if you forget the
bread crumbs. I told you that!”
I was betrayed by her I called sister! A light came into Mrs. Kit’s
eyes.
“Did _you_ give him those recipes, Carrie?” she asked.
“Of _course_ I did, Alice, and told him to be _sure_ to tell you about
the bread crumbs. And he _didn’t_! Oh, Rollo”--she turned to me--“and
you asked me if they would be sure to run _without_ the bread crumbs!”