Two or
three years ago, one came in May and another in September."
"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.
"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."
"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.
"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her.
There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force
have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."
"Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity.
"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr.
Bingle.
"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle
in his grey eyes.
"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses
say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here.
I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit
of ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in
respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have
the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange
the--er--the auditorium, you might say.
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