sir. What I desired to say, sir, was this: I attended a performance at the local cinema last night.”
I raised the eyebrows. I was surprised at the man. With life in the home so frightfully tense and the young master up against it to such a fearful extent, I disapproved of him coming toddling in and prattling about his amusements.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” I said in rather a nasty manner.
“Yes, sir, thank you. The management was presenting a super-super-film in seven reels, dealing with life in the wilder and more feverish strata of New York Society, featuring Bertha Blevitch, Orlando Murphy and Baby Bobbie. I found it most entertaining, sir.”
“That’s good,” I said. “And if you have a nice time this morning on the sands with your spade and bucket, you will come and tell me all about it, won’t you? I have so little on my mind just now that it’s a treat to hear all about your happy holiday.”
Satirical, if you see what I mean. Sarcastic. Almost bitter, as a matter of fact, if you come right down to it.
“The title of the film was Tiny Hands , sir. And the father and mother of the character played by Baby Bobbie had unfortunately drifted apart—”
“Too bad,” I said.
“Although at heart they loved each other still, sir.”
“Did they really? I’m glad you told me that.”
“And so matters went on, sir, till came a day when—”