"What's that, what's that?" demanded Colonel Faversham, crossing the
room to Bridget's side.
"I was telling Miss Rosser," Phoebe explained, "that Victor is going to
have a party. Eight children all under three."
"Good heavens!" said the colonel.
"I was wondering whether you would care to come and see them,"
suggested Phoebe, and she would have liked to invite the sympathetic
Bridget, only that she felt certain Lawrence would disapprove.
"No, thank you, Phoebe, no, thank you," was the prompt reply. "Still,
you needn't be afraid. I shall not forget his birthday. You'll see!"
"Oh, then it is Victor's birthday!" cried Bridget.
"On Tuesday," said Phoebe.
"How old will he be?"
"Two," returned his delighted mother, and Bridget leaned back in her
chair with a profound sigh.
"Oh dear," she murmured, "and I shall actually be twenty-three on
Wednesday!"
"Now what are you going to do to celebrate the occasion?" demanded
Colonel Faversham.
"Let me see," said Bridget; "I shall breakfast alone, have lunch alone,
tea alone and dinner in the same delightful company. How different it
used to be when we lived at Crowborough! The day was a kind of
festival.
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