Free A God and His Gifts by Ivy Compton-Burnett Page A

be.”
    â€œSome of us feel we can,” said Hereward.
    â€œIf you are thinking of me, you are wrong,” said Merton. “I know what I am, as everyone must. How can we escape the knowledge?”
    â€œMr. and Miss Merton,” said Galleon at the door.
    â€œWhy, Father, you were in my mind,” said Ada. “I was thinking of your having only daughters. We are facing the future for our sons. And daughters are allowed to disregard it.”
    â€œI would have faced it for and with any sons of mine.”
    â€œFather, you have had a disappointment! How wonderfully you have hidden it! How grateful we ought to be!”
    â€œFather and Mother have had one,” said Reuben. “And I suppose it could hardly be hidden. It was me.”
    â€œYes, I did want a daughter,” said Ada. “But I would not change my sons. Or change anything about them.”
    â€œFather should emulate a mother’s feelings,” said Merton. “They are much respected.”
    â€œWhat about you, Aunt Penelope?” said Ada. “Would you have liked to have great-nieces?”
    â€œI am content with what has come to me. I have taken no steps myself.”
    â€œAnd how grateful for it we should be! Ah, our unmarried women! Where should we be without them? What a place they fill!”
    â€œIt is not always so highly considered.”
    â€œOh, but it is. By people who take the broader view. And in this matter they are many. What would Father say about it?”
    â€œThe place I fill for him was left empty. That is how I came to be in it.”
    â€œHonest and clear as always! How we should miss the light you shed! There will be a void one day.”
    â€œYou don’t mean that she will die?” said Joanna. “You know she will not. You must know no one will, who is here.”
    â€œI mean that she will live on in our memories and our lives, as long as we breathe ourselves. That is what I mean.”
    â€œIt is what you suggested,” said Hereward.
    â€œOh, you are a sardonic, carping creature to-day. You are not fair on anyone. If the boys want to escape to their own sanctum, you must not blame them. They may have had enough of you.”
    â€œI should not blame them. I daresay they have had too much. They can go and forget us. And we will go our several ways.”
    â€œWell, Galleon,” said Sir Michael. “You have heard the talk. What do you say to a second writer in the family?”
    â€œWell, ‘like father, like son’, as was said, Sir Michael. Or that at the moment. It is a stage that may pass.”
    â€œAnd you feel it better that it should?”
    â€œWell, one irregularity in the family, Sir Michael. It is no great thing.”
    â€œYou still see writing in that way?”
    â€œWell, hardly Mr. Alfred Merton’s, Sir Michael. Involving what it does. This of ours is of a lighter nature,” said Galleon, trying to take a step forward.
    â€œBut that is not against it.”
    â€œOn the contrary, Sir Michael. It has its own purpose.”
    â€œWell, you know, Galleon,” said Sir Michael, lowering his tone and glancing round the empty room, “I half-feel it myself. There might be something more solid, and without the personal touch. But I am wrong you know. Utterly off the truth. I understand that now. And there is no prouder father.”
    â€œAnd there is no point in a prouder butler, Sir Michael,” said Galleon, smiling. “There would be no place for pride.”
    â€œAnd we welcome the help with expenses. They grow with every year.”
    â€œI have heard of a lady who made a fortune by the type of writing, Sir Michael,” said Galleon, with another effort to adapt himself.
    â€œWell, I hope my grandson will make one. And in the same way. Though there seems somehow to be a doubt of it.”
    The grandsons had gone to the room that was known as their study, on the assumption that it earned the