might say, and of course I _am_ interested. There's such a whole lot
depends on the father. Why, only think how different things would have
been at home if _my_ father had been different! There were such a lot
of things I had to be careful not to do--and just as many I had to be
careful _to_ do--on account of Father.

And so now, when I see all these nice young gentlemen (only they
aren't all young; some of them are quite old) coming to the house and
talking to Mother, and hanging over the back of her chair, and handing
her tea and little cakes, I can't help wondering which, if any, is
going to be her lover and my new father. And I am also wondering what
I'll have to do on account of him when I get him, if I get him.

There are quite a lot of them, and they're all different. They'd make
very different kinds of fathers, I'm sure, and I'm afraid I wouldn't
like some of them. But, after all, it's Mother that ought to settle
which to have--not me. _She's_ the one to be pleased. 'T would be such
a pity to have to change again. Though she could, of course, same as
she did Father, I suppose.

As I said, they're all different. There are only two that are anywhere
near alike, and they aren't quite the same, for one's a lawyer and the
other's in a bank. But they both carry canes and wear tall silk hats,
and part their hair in the middle, and look at you through the kind of
big round eyeglasses with dark rims that would make you look awfully
homely if they didn't make you look so stylish. But I don't think
Mother cares very much for either the lawyer or the bank man, and I'm
glad. I wouldn't like to live with those glasses every day, even if
they are stylish. I'd much rather have Father's kind.