I give you leave," said the voice. Then there were rustlings. "Come in now."
And there was his mother standing by her bath, which smelt deliciously fragrant, in a lovely blue bath-towel dressing-gown.
"Good-morning, darling," said she. "But you must never come into a lady's bath-room unless she gives you leave."
"Why not?" said Archie. "You come to see me in my bath without my saying 'Yes.'"
She gave that delicious bubble of laughter that reminded Archie of the sound of cool lemonade being poured out of the bottle.
"I shan't when you're as old as me," she said. "I shall always ask your leave. And probably you won't give it me."
"Why not? It's only me," said Archie.
"You'll know when you're older," said she.
Archie rather despised that argument: it seemed to apply to so many situations in life. But he had already formed the very excellent habit of crediting his mother with the gift of common sense, for was it not she who had discovered that the snarl of the tiger-heads was a snarl not at Archie, but at his enemies? But on this occasion it merely confirmed his conviction that women were somehow deformed. They wore skirts instead of breeches, and though, judging by his younger sister, they were normal up to about the level of the knee, it seemed likely that their legs extended no farther, but that they became like peg-tops, swelling out in one round piece till their bodies were reached. What confirmed this impression was that they seemed to run from their knees instead of striding with a swung leg. Blessington always ran like that: her feet twinkled in ridiculously short steps, and after a moment or two she said:
"Eh, I can't run any more. I've got a bone in my leg."
