The knitting needles paused an instant.

“Yes,” Anna-Felicitas joined in, interested by these recollections, her long limbs sunk in her chair in a position of great ease and comfort, “and it seemed to us so funny for him to have to be reminded to put on what was really a part of his clothes every day, that once we wrote a slip of our own for him and left it on his dressing-table:  Don’t forget your Trousers.”

The knitting needles paused again.

“But the results of that were dreadful,” added Anna-Felicitas, her face sobering at the thought of them.

“Yes,” said Anna-Rose.  “You see, he supposed Aunt Alice had done it, in a fit of high spirits, though she never had high spirits—­”

“And wouldn’t have been allowed to if she had,” explained Anna-Felicitas.

“And he thought she was laughing at him,” said Anna-Rose, “though we have never seen her laugh—­”

“And I don’t believe he has either,” said Anna-Felicitas.

“So there was trouble, because he couldn’t bear the idea of her laughing at him, and we had to confess.”

“But that didn’t make it any better for Aunt Alice.”

“No, because then he said it was her fault anyhow for not keeping us stricter.”

“So,” said Anna-Felicitas, “after the house had been steeped in a sulphurous gloom for over a week, and we all felt as though we were being slowly and steadily gassed, we tried to make it up by writing a final one—­a nice one—­and leaving it on his plate at breakfast:  Kiss your Wife.  But instead of kissing her he—­” She broke off, and then finished a little vaguely:  “Oh well, he didn’t.”

“Still,” remarked Anna-Rose, “it must be pleasant not to be kissed by a husband.  Aunt Alice always wanted him to, strange to say, which is why we reminded him of it.  He used to forget that more regularly than almost anything.  And the people who lived in the house nearest us were just the opposite—­the husband was for ever trying to kiss the person who was his wife, and she was for ever dodging him.”

“Yes,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “Like the people on Keats’s Grecian Urn.”

“Yes,” said Anna-Rose.  “And that sort of husband, must be even worse.

“Oh, much worse,” agreed Anna-Felicitas.

She looked round amiably at the three quiet figures in the chairs.  “I shall refrain altogether from husbands,” she said placidly.  “I shall take something that doesn’t kiss.”

And she fell into an abstraction, wondering, with her cheek resting on her hand, what he, or it, would look like.

There was a pause.  Anna-Rose was wondering too what sort of a creature Columbus had in her mind, and how many, if any, legs it would have; and the other three were, as before, silent.

Then the old lady said, “Albert,” and put out her hand to be helped on to her feet.

The old gentleman struggled out of his chair, and helped her up.  His face had a congested look, as if he were with difficulty keeping back things he wanted to say.