God knows where. It was over a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because they were so “dreadfully sentimental” and “so appallingly bad for the babies’ sense of form.”
“It’s so important,” the new Isabel had explained, “that they should like the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to be taken to the Royal Academy.”
And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate death to anyone. . . .
“Well, I don’t know,” said William slowly. “When I was their age I used to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it.”
The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart.
“Dear William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the new way.
Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies handing the boxes round—they were awfully generous little chaps—while Isabel’s precious friends didn’t hesitate to help themselves. . . .
What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the station. What about a
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