’Because I like,’ explained the Gidger to Uncle Woss, ’to see Jesus and the tittens when I get into my byes.’
’Would you call King George by his Christian name, Gidger?’ Ross asked.
’Because it would be most fwightful cheek.’
’Then don’t you see it’s much more cheek to call Him by His, darling?’
’But I didn’t mean to be wude to Him,’ said the Poppet tearfully, ’I’m fond of Him.’
’Of course, darling, so if you just say "Sorry, Sir," it’ll be all right.’
So the Gidger said, ’Sorry, Sir,’ and the conversation changed to kittens.
’I wish I had a titten, Uncle Woss, just like the one in the miggle.’
Ross said he would see what could be done, with which my daughter seemed contented.
But, ah, why is there only one little bed in the nursery, why is there no little son? Yes, of course, Michael is ’better to me than ten sons,’ only he’s so ’normous, the other would be so cuddley.
The Gidger does so want a long clothes baby doll. She’s got a mother hunger for it, and I won’t give her one. Shall I tell you why? If I should ever have the joy to hope about a little son, I shall hunt the garden for a nest, and let the Gidger peep at it with all the soft, downy things inside. Then I shall say, ’I made a little nest for you once, darling, just underneath my heart,’ and I shall take her up in the nursery and open a drawer and show her all the small robes and garments that I made for her, and then she’ll say, ’Oh, muvver, why won’t you let me have a long clothes baby dolly?’ And I shall tell her about the second nest that I’ve begun to make, and then I shall give her a most perfect baby doll that I’ve got waiting in a box just now. I shall ask her sometimes if she’d like to come and learn to sew some clothes for her baby while I sew some for mine: and if she pricks her little fingers, and makes a tiny spot of blood upon the narrow hem, and looks at me with eyes like drowned forget-me-nots (as she does if she is going to cry), I shall say, ’But, darling, don’t you think it’s worth it for your baby?’ She’ll learn to know then, when she’s married and she’s got the mother hunger, that her baby will be worth the mother pain.
And now the evening time has come. The house is finished, the last picture is up, the last curtain hung, and all the dear domestic gods arranged. Alas! the fly in the ointment has turned up also. The staff has arrived, and I am terrified of it. I feel all awash inside to think that I have to order the dinner in the morning and tell the S.P. what her work is. However, ’sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’