Now, his mother
stared straight in front of her with an expression of which she alone
among human beings had the monopoly.
"I should like to," said Nellie, generously.
"Well," said he, "I've got to go back to town to-morrow. Wilt come
with me, lass?"
"Don't be silly, Edward Henry," said she. "How can I leave mother in
the middle of all this spring-cleaning?"
"You needn't leave mother. We'll take her too," said Edward Henry,
lightly.
"You won't!" observed Mrs. Machin.
"I _have to_ go to-morrow, Nell," said Edward Henry. "And I was
thinking you might as well come with me. It will be a change for you."
(He said to himself, "And not only have I to go to-morrow, but you
absolutely must come with me, my girl. That's the one thing to do.")
"It would be a change for me," Nellie agreed--she was beyond doubt
flattered and calmly pleased. "But I can't possibly come to-morrow.
You can see that for yourself, dear."
"No, I can't!" he cried impatiently. "What does it matter? Mother'll
be here. The kids'll be all right. After all, spring-cleaning isn't
the Day of Judgment."
"Edward Henry," said his mother, cutting in between them like a thin
blade, "I wish you wouldn't be blasphemous. London's London, and
Bursley's Bursley." She had finished.
"It's quite out of the question for me to come to-morrow, dear.
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