The children were a boy of ten, Martin, junior, and a girl, Ellen, of
eight. There was a three-year-old baby, too, but his nurse looked after
him. They had finished breakfast, but Frederica had a way of keeping
them at the table for a little while every morning, chatting with
her--oh, about anything they pleased. If it was a design for their
improvement, they didn't suspect it. The talk broke off short when the
three of them, almost simultaneously, looked up and saw Rodney in the
doorway.
"Hello!" Frederica said, holding out a hand to him, but not rising.
"Just in time for breakfast."
"Don't ring," he said quickly. "I've had all I want. My train got in an
hour ago and I had a try at the station restaurant."
"Well, sit down anyway," said Frederica.
"Take this chair, Uncle Rod," said the boy in a voice of brusk
indifference. "Excuse me, mother?" He barely waited for her nod and
blundered out of the room.
The girl came round to Rodney's chair to offer him her hand and drop her
curtsy; took a carnation from a bowl on the table and tucked it into his
button-hole, slid her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek.
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