Mary Melancholy’s manner suggested a sense of superiority, thought Mrs. Tweedlebare. It stemmed no doubt from the pioneering spirit common to the first-born.
Paul was cute. Mary patted him on the head, as she had seen adults do. She did not pat him on the head because she was merely imitating her elders. Mary was too independent for that. She did not pat him on the head merely because she knew that it annoyed him. She did so with the certainty that with company present, Small Paul would be unwise to complain. Mary was, after all, just trying to be nice. Hadn’t she just said that he was adorable?
Mrs. Tweedlebare jotted a few words in her steno pad.
“Of course, Freddie Fudge is also adorable,” Mary said.
For whatever reason, Mrs. Tweedlebare was reminded of a slinky jaguar on a gnarled branch above a slimy slough in which slovenly crocodiles snoozed. Enormous eyes gleaming in the gloom hinted at the glimmer of story.
“Let’s take our tea into the living room,” Barbara Melancholy said. “It’s in the lee of Freddie’s raucous chatter.
This family is not quite what I first thought, she told herself. They are no way as dull as dishwater. She helped herself to her fourth gingersnap and made a note to bring earplugs the next time she came to tea.