Masquerade at the Wells [antikvár]

My Birthday It all began on my twelfth birthday. Mummy was pouring out the coffee, Daddy was buried in The Financial Times, and I was thinking how awkward it is when grown-up people will persist in giving you the sort of presents they'd have Uked themselves when they were your age, instead of letting you choose what like. Suddenly Mummy stopped pouring out and said: "Do sit up, Janel Really, you're getting quite round-shouldered. Don't you think so, Harold?" Daddy just grunted from behind The Financial Times, and I knew by the sound of the grunt that something he'd got shares in had gone down, and that he hadn't heard a word that Mummy was saying. Mummy realized that too. "Harold!" she repeated a little louder. "I do wish you'd listen. It's really much more important than Peabody's Ordinaries." "What is?" Daddy said, looking over the top of The Financial Times, and I knew by the hazy expression in his eyes that his thoughts were still with Peabody's Ordinaries, and not with Mummy and my shoulders. "I said," Mummy repeated patiently for the third time, "that Jane is growing positively round-shouldered. Don't you think so?" "Oh," said Daddy, waking up. "Yes, I've noticed it. It'll be all that riding, I shouldn't wonder."