After that he climbed up on the
dresser and announced to them that he was an ourang-outang. They
watched him break a soup-tureen, and then the eldest boy, stepping
out into the middle of the room, held up his arm, and the Member of
Parliament, somewhat surprised, sat down on the dresser and listened.
"Please, sir," said the eldest boy, "we're awfully sorry. It's
awfully good of you, sir. But somehow we're not feeling in the mood
for wild beasts this afternoon."
The Member of Parliament brought them down into the drawing-room,
where we had music; and the children, at their own request, were
allowed to sing hymns. The next day they came of their own accord,
and asked the Member of Parliament to play at beasts with them; but
it seemed he had letters to write.
There are times when jokes about mothers-in-law strike me as lacking
both in taste and freshness. On this particular evening they came to
me bringing with them all the fragrance of the days that are no more.
The first play I ever saw dealt with the subject of the mother-in-
law--the "Problem" I think it was called in those days. The occasion
was an amateur performance given in aid of the local Ragged School.
A cousin of mine, lately married, played the wife; and my aunt, I
remember, got up and walked out in the middle of the second act.
Robina, in spectacles and an early Victorian bonnet, reminded me of
her. Young Bute played a comic cabman.
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