him.

Dorothy saw her mother's profound misapprehension and she hastened to
put it right.

"It isn't Auntie Louie, Mummy. His ear is really aching."

And still Frances went on smiling. She knew, and Nicky knew that, if a
little boy could establish the fact of earache, he was absolved from all
social and family obligations for as long as his affliction lasted. He
wouldn't have to stand still and pretend he liked it while he was being
kissed at.

Frances kept her mouth shut when she smiled, as if she were trying not
to. It was her upper lip that got the better of her. The fine, thin
edges of it quivered and twitched and curled. You would have said the
very down was sensitive to her thought's secret and iniquitous play. Her
smile mocked other people's solemnities, her husband's solemnity, and
the solemnity (no doubt inherited) of her son Michael; it mocked the
demureness and the gravity of her face.

She had brought her face close to Nicky's; and it was as if her mouth
had eyes in it to see if there were guile in him.

"Are you a little humbug?" she said.

Nicky loved his mother's face. It never got excited or did silly things
like other people's faces. It never got red and shiny like Auntie
Louie's face, or hot and rough like Auntie Emmeline's, or wet and mizzly
like Auntie Edie's. The softness and whiteness and dryness of his