Then, Diana said, it was clearly meant.  If a man deliberately set out on a fine morning, bent on spending more than he could afford, then —!  Diana’s “then” is always so comforting.

I am so afraid you will spoil the children, she said; “they expect presents, which is so dreadful.  Hugh bet sixpence at lunch that you would bring him something, and he said to poor Mr. Hardy, You didn’t.”

“But he will next time, Diana,” I said.

“Of course he will; that is the dreadful part of it.”

It is right that Diana should feel like that.  A mother’s point of view and another’s, an aunt’s, for instance, are totally different things, and I told Diana that, while fully appreciating her anxieties regarding the characters of her children, considered that to destroy a child’s faith in an aunt was little short of criminal.  But I promised that the next time I came I would, perhaps, not bring them anything.  “But I shall give them fair warning.”

Diana admitted the justice of this, and she said, with a sigh of relief, “I can’t bear the children to be disappointed; a disappointed Sara is —­”

“Diana,” I interrupted, “is it wise to begin Saraing at this time of day?”

In reality the woolly rabbit was tugging at my heartstrings and clamoring to be unpacked.  After a hurried tea, which I was obliged to have for the sake of Bindon’s feelings, I went upstairs, resolved to disinter at all costs, without delay, the rabbit.  I felt great anxiety lest in transit the machinery which made the rabbit squeak in a way that surely no rabbit, mechanical or otherwise, — particularly the otherwise, I hoped, — had ever squeaked before, might be impaired; happily it was not.

Having carefully shut the door and silenced the attendant housemaid, I took the precaution of burying the rabbit partially under the eider-down quilt before testing the squeak, so that no noise should reach the children.  I am afraid I “mothered” the squeak of that rabbit if I imagined it could reach anywhere so far; it was in reality such a very small one.  But such as it was, it was perfect, in spite of the deadening effect of the quilt, and I pictured Sara’s dimples dimpling.  How she would love it!  The treasure was carefully wrapped up again, and I tried hard to make it look like anything rather than a rabbit, in case Sara should try, by feeling it, to discover its nature.

Jane, the housemaid, said that no one could tell, no matter how much they tried; if they tried all day, they wouldn’t, that she knew for sure; which was very consoling.

I then examined Hugh’s train and Betty’s cooking-stove, and found them intact, with, the exception of a saucepan lid.  This, after a search, we found under the wardrobe.  Why do things always go under things?  Jane didn’t know — she only knew they did.  Then I opened the door and called.