Ilford. There was excuse for my mother's tears.

"Isn't it possible to get somebody else?" asked my father.

"Impossible, in the time," said my mother. "I had been training her
for the whole week. We had rehearsed it perfectly."

"Have it in the kitchen," suggested my aunt, who was folding napkins
to look like ships, which they didn't in the least, "and call it a
picnic." Really it seemed the only practical solution.

There came a light knock at the front door.

"It can't be anybody yet, surely," exclaimed my father in alarm,
making for his coat.

"It's Barbara, I expect," explained my mother. "She promised to come
round and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her." My
mother's nature was pessimistic.

But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it upon
myself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the
window when Barbara came in at the door--in those days, I mean.

She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was
so quick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing.

"There's going to be no dinner," laughed my father. "We are going to
look surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to
see their faces."