have thought would have softened stones, left her unfeeling audience not
only unmoved, but apparently even unobservant. From sheer decency, Henry
would flute out something to show that her suffering was not lost on
him; but it is to be feared the young ones would only wink at each other
at this sign of unsophistication.

"Oh, you unfeeling child!" Mrs. Flower would exclaim, as sometimes she
caught them exchanging comments in this way. "And your father, there, is
just as bad," she would say, impatient to provoke somebody.

This remark would probably prompt Mr. Flower to the indulgence of a form
of matrimonial banter which was not unlike the endearments he bestowed
upon his horses, and which, when you knew that he loved the little
quaint woman with all his heart, you were able to translate into more
customary modes of affection.

"Yes, indeed," he would say, "it's evidently time I was looking out for
some active young woman, Eliza--when you begin limping about like that.
It's a pity, but the best of us must wear out some day--"

This superficially heartless pleasantry he would deliver with a sweeping
wink at Henry and his four girls; but Mrs. Flower would see nothing to
laugh at, for humour was not her strong point.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ralph," she said, "before the
children. I was once young and active enough to take your fancy, anyhow.
Mr. Mesurier, won't you have a little more spinach? Do; it's fresh from
the country this morning. You mustn't mind Mr. Flower. He's fond of his
joke; and, whatever he likes to say, he'd get on pretty badly without
his old Eliza."