Anne Belinda Read Online Free PDF

terribly lined.
    John had told himself all the way down that it was no more than his duty to call on the Thompsons. It had seemed a pretty good idea. He would call on them, do his duty, and gather information, “all under one” as his old nurse used to say. Now, struggling through the polite preliminaries, he began to wonder why he had come. Mrs. Thompson fluttered. How on earth did one talk to a woman who fluttered? And he was probably disturbing her just when she most particularly didn’t want to be disturbed; she had the air of a person who is always doing something very important at the highest possible rate of speed, and she would go on talking about his having been kept waiting. He made a determined effort, and stemmed the flow of apology.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter in the least. It’s very kind of you to see me. I’m such an absolute stranger, and I thought—”
    The door was banged open abruptly. John had an impression of flaming red hair, a turned-up nose, freckles, and enormously large hands. Then there was an exclamation of “Bother!” and the door was shut again with a bang.
    â€œOh, Cyril!” protested Mrs. Thompson.
    John repeated his last words firmly:
    â€œI’m such an absolute stranger, and I shall be most grateful to anyone who will make me feel a little less strange—tell me something about the place and the people, you know.”
    â€œOh, yes ,” said Mrs. Thompson.
    The door opened again. A long, ramshackle girl came half-way in and stood twisting the handle. She wore a desperate frown. The outgrown sleeves of a faded grey jumper showed some six inches of a bony wrist and arm.
    â€œWhat is it, Delia?”
    Delia went on twisting the handle. She had a high, bony nose, red and wind-bitten. She spoke through it now.
    â€œThe Clothing Club accounts—Mrs. Anderson’s sent Annie, and she says that if she can’t have them at once, she can’t possibly do them before Saturday.” She finished with a sniff.
    â€œOh, my dear child, how inconvenient and—This is my eldest girl, Delia, Sir John. Delia, pet, let go of the handle and come and say ‘How d’you do?’ And—dear me, let me see—yes, the accounts are in the left-hand corner of the third long drawer of my bureau—or if it isn’t the third drawer, it’s the second—and it’s the blue book with the torn label and ‘Library Account’ crossed out.”
    Delia drifted from the room. Mrs. Thompson turned again to her guest.
    â€œAh, yes ,” she said—“yes, of course—it must all feel very strange to you. But anything I can do—It’s very nice indeed to have you taking so much interest, and I hope we shall all get to know you quite soon. Now, there’s Mrs. Anderson—you heard Delia mention her—one of our most helpful workers, a war widow with one little girl—”
    â€œI’m afraid,” said John, “that I was beginning by being interested in my own family, though, of course, I hope I shall soon get to know all the other people round here. You knew my cousins?”
    There was a rattling, scrambling sound outside the window; the head and shoulders of a boy of nine appeared. John identified the red hair and the freckles which he had seen for a moment through the half-opened door.
    Mrs. Thompson whisked round in her chair and said “Oh, Cyril!” in exactly the same tone as before.
    Cyril burst into speech:
    â€œAnnie says that Jim’s come to-day instead of to-morrow. And her mother says can Tin and I come to tea?”
    â€œNot in those clothes—My second boy, Cyril, Sir John. And tell Augustine to take the new nail-brush and scrub his hands, and then come and show them to me—and you too.”
    There was a smothered “Bother!” a renewed scramble, and, as Cyril disappeared, Mrs. Thompson said brightly:
    â€œAh, yes, your cousins—such