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And yet, incredible as it may seem, it was not long before Laura knew all about John, and Lettice, and little Mary-Rosalind. The big fat family albums, with their stamped, stuffed leathern covers and biblical clasps, were not to be kept from Laura, reverent yet intrigued: and once fairly open on Mrs. Cloud’s lap at a little girl in pantalettes and an urchin that Laura at first glance had mistaken for Justin, there would be stories.

Laura would ground-bait artfully.

“Was Justin ever naughty when he was little, Mrs. Cloud?”

Mrs. Cloud would affect forgetfulness.

“Oh, not more than other children, I suppose. Aren’t your little brothers ever naughty?”

Laura would consider.

“Oh, yes. Silly naughty. But not exciting. Not like Justin when he threw the porridge at Miss Beamish.” Her eyes gleamed admiration. “And that day, you know, at the photographer’s—when he was so cross. The picture’s here.”

“That was John,” said Mrs. Cloud quickly.

“Oh??” Laura could put a good deal into her exclamations. “Oh???”