Free Giant's Bread by Agatha writing as Mary Westmacott Christie

again?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, yes. You women do harp on a thing so. We’re looking at the thing from a business point of view now. I don’t think a divorce will wash.’
    â€˜I don’t want a divorce.’
    â€˜Well, what do you want, a separation?’
    â€˜So that he could go and live with that abandoned creature in London? Live with her altogether? And what would happen to me, I should like to know?’
    â€˜Plenty of nice houses near me and Carrie. You’d have the boy with you most of the time, I expect.’
    â€˜And let Walter bring disgusting women into this very house, perhaps? No, indeed, I don’t intend to play into his hands like that!’
    â€˜Well, dash it all Myra, what do you want?’
    Myra began to cry again.
    â€˜I’m so miserable, Syd, I’m so miserable. If only Walter were different.’
    â€˜Well, he isn’t – and he never will be. You must just make up your mind to it, Myra. You’ve married a fellow who’s a bit of a Don Jooan – and you’ve got to try and take a broadminded view of it. You’re fond of the chap. Kiss and make friends – that’s what I say. We’re none of us perfect. Give and take – that’s the thing to remember – give and take.’
    His sister continued to weep quietly.
    â€˜Marriage is a ticklish business,’ went on Uncle Sydney in a ruminative voice. ‘Women are too good for us, not a doubt of it.’
    â€˜I suppose,’ said Myra in a tearful voice. ‘One ought to forgive and forgive – again and again.’
    â€˜That’s the spirit,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Women are angels and men aren’t, and women have got to make allowances. Always have had to and always will.’
    Myra’s sobs grew less. She was seeing herself now in the role of the forgiving angel.
    â€˜It isn’t as if I didn’t do everything I could,’ she sobbed. ‘I run the house and I’m sure nobody could be a more devoted mother.’
    â€˜Of course you are,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘And that’s a fine youngster of yours. I wish Carrie and I had a boy. Four girls – it’s a bit thick. Still as I always say to her: “Better luck next time, old girl.” We both feel sure it’s going to be a boy this time.’
    Myra was diverted.
    â€˜I didn’t know. When is it?’
    â€˜June.’
    â€˜How is Carrie?’
    â€˜Suffering a bit with her legs – swelled, you know. But she manages to get about a fair amount. Why, hallo, here’s that young shaver. How long have you been here, my boy?’
    â€˜Oh, a long time,’ said Vernon. ‘I was here when you came in.’
    â€˜You’re so quiet,’ complained his uncle. ‘Not like your cousins. I’m sure the racket they make is almost too much to bear sometimes. What’s that you’ve got there?’
    â€˜It’s an engine,’ said Vernon.
    â€˜No, it isn’t,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘It’s a milk cart!’
    Vernon was silent.
    â€˜Hey,’ said Uncle Sydney. ‘Isn’t it a milk cart?’
    â€˜No,’ said Vernon. ‘It’s an engine.’
    â€˜Not a bit of it. It’s a milk cart. That’s funny, isn’t it? You say it’s an engine and I say it’s a milk cart. I wonder which of us is right?’
    Since Vernon knew that he was, it seemed hardly necessary to reply.
    â€˜He’s a solemn child,’ said Uncle Sydney turning to his sister. ‘Never sees a joke. You know, my boy, you’ll have to get used to being teased at school.’
    â€˜Shall I?’ said Vernon, who couldn’t see what that had to do with it.
    â€˜A boy who can take teasing with a laugh, that’s the sort of boy who gets on in the world,’ said Uncle Sydney and jingled his money again, stimulated by a natural association of ideas.
    Vernon stared at him