Parents and Children by Ivy Compton-Burnett

the nursery children were expected to stand, and they would presumably continue to do so, as there was no further provision of seats.
    â€˜Who came in last?’ said Eleanor, almost at once.
    â€˜James,’ said Daniel. ‘He has reached that stage.’
    â€˜Then go back and shut the door, my boy. Doors do not shut themselves, do they?’
    James was enabled by experience to agree.
    â€˜It is a pity they do not,’ said Isabel. ‘It is absurd not to invent one that does, considering how often the process takes place.’
    â€˜Well, you have done a good morning’s work,’ said Sir Jesse, disposing of this question for his grandchildren, and pushing a dish towards them, before withdrawing his thought.
    â€˜Grandpa means you to help yourselves,’ said Eleanor, in almost disapproving congratulation.
    â€˜They are old enough, Mother,’ said Luce.
    â€˜If they were not, I should not allow it, my dear. That was a needless speech. James, don’t you want any?’
    James hesitated to say that the delicacy in question upset him, and helped himself.
    â€˜Venice looks well, doesn’t she?’ said Eleanor, willing for notice of her daughter’s looks.
    Venice turned her eyes to the wall and struck the ground with her foot.
    â€˜What is there on the wall that interests you?’ said her mother.
    â€˜I am looking at the pictures of Aunt Lucia and Uncle Daniel.’
    â€˜You must know them very well,’ said Eleanor, forgetting that Regan would be moved to emotion, and Sir Jesse to consequent concern, and averting her eyes as the scene took place.
    The portraits of the dead son and daughter were rendered with the simple flattery of mercenary Victorian art, and Regan accepted the improvement not so much because it had come to her to be the truth, as because nothing seemed to her to be too good for the originals. That a portrait of Fulbert had a less honourable place, was due less to its obvious discrepancy with truth, than to the fact that he was not yet dead. Regan carried the loss of her children as she carried her body, always suffering and sustaining it.
    â€˜James,’ said Eleanor, taking any chance to end the pause, ‘you must not put things in your pocket to take upstairs. That is not the way to behave. Take what you want and no more. Grandpa did not mean that.’
    â€˜Isn’t that the thing that makes him sick?’ said Graham.
    â€˜Is it, James? Then why did you take it? You must know when you do not want something. What was your reason?’
    James had several reasons, a reluctance to appear to fuss about himself, a fear lest allusion to his health should in some way expose his morning’s leisure, a purpose of transferring his portion to his sisters, and a hesitation to meet his grandfather’s kindness with anything but gratitude. He did not state them, though some were to his credit, but some of his experience, of which there was enough and to spare, welled over into his eyes.
    â€˜You are not crying!’ said Eleanor, honestly incredulous. ‘Crying because you have too many good things! Well, what a thing to do.’
    â€˜He has had one thing that is bad for him,’ said Graham.
    â€˜If good things bring tears, he is better without them,’ said Eleanor, giving James a sense that a general impotence did not preclude a mental advantage. ‘And I think they had better go to the schoolroom. Perhaps there are fewer there.’
    â€˜There are fewer bad ones anyhow,’ said Venice, under her breath.
    â€˜What did you say, dear?’ said Eleanor.
    â€˜I said we had not been down here very long.’
    â€˜No, you have not, dear child,’ said Eleanor, changing her tone. ‘But luncheon is dragging on very late. That is why I am asking you to go. Not for any other reason.’
    â€˜Why do you state other reasons, if they do not hold good?’ said Fulbert.
    â€˜Because I am a feeble,