"'Severity' introduces a rhyme, which won't do at all; 'sternness'

doesn't convey asceticism, as 'austerity' does. Give me others."

"'Gravity,'" said Phyllis. "Or seriousness.'"

"'Asperity,'" suggested Sir Peter.

"I have it!" said John. "'His stern simplicity.'"

"Why didn't you say we could have two words?" asked Sir Peter.

John's pen was busy; obviously he did not hear.

"Burbage will serve tea here, Uncle Peter," said Phyllis. "John, you will try to make Mark talk, won't you? He is so shy."

John gazed at nothing, with vacant eyes. Phyllis looked at her uncle, comically.

"Uncle Peter, you tell him about Mark the next time he gives evidence of belonging to the human family."

She walked toward the house, intent on arrangements. At the door she glanced over her shoulder.

"Uncle Peter," she called to him, "you were pushing the perambulator forward and backward with your foot. It isn't allowed."

"They always did it in my day," said Sir Peter.

"Well, they don't now," replied Phyllis.

"Very well, my dear," said Sir Peter meekly.

Phyllis went into the house. Sir Peter observed the windows keenly; when he thought the coast was clear he gently pushed the perambulator forward and backward with his foot.

Twenty minutes later a big gray car deposited three dusty persons on the little porch. Peggy and Phyllis cooed over each other. Mark pointed to Mrs. Farquharson.

"We picked her up," he said. "She had started to walk from the railway station."

Mrs. Farquharson surveyed him with an austerity that required no synonym.

"Never again," said she. "Pony-cart or no pony-cart. A hundred miles an hour, my dear, if ever he went one."

She retired to the rear, where Burbage could be found, with whom she had come to take tea and pa.s.s the afternoon.

"Lead me to the infant!" demanded Peggy. "I haven't seen him for so long I am prepared to find him in knickerbockers, smoking a cigarette."

"Peggy! only two weeks," exclaimed Phyllis.

"Two weeks!" rejoined Peggy. "Oh, in time, of course; but aeons in experience. We have had tire trouble--"

"Oh, cut that, Peg," suggested Mark.

"I will not," retorted Peggy. "We have paid enough for new tires since we started to endow Saint Ruth's. Each time our troubles have occurred in the exact center of population. I have been stared at from front and rear by the entire British people. And Mark has given the recording angel the time of his life. Everything has happened that could wreck our married happiness, but we are now armor-clad against infelicity. We have really had the most beau-ti-ful time! We haven't eaten a meal in an inn except breakfast. Simple life by the wayside for us! Two alcohol stoves--I am starved now, though! Perhaps we had better have tea before I see the baby--I might be tempted beyond my strength."

"And you are well, Mark?" asked Phyllis.

"Finer than a new crank-shaft," he replied, grinning. "I am also in the breadline though."

"One result of our difficulties was the development of Mark's conversational powers," whispered Peggy to Phyllis. "He is almost a self-starter now."

"How well you both look, brown as--"

"Don't say gypsies!" urged Peggy. "We have heard it everywhere."

"Indians, then," said Phyllis.

Tea was served under the trees. The baby awakened as though for Peggy's express benefit. He spluttered and gurgled, and made queer faces in his charming way, selecting Peggy for the most fascinating attentions After tea, Phyllis and Peggy went into the house to exchange confidences.

Peggy carried the baby.

Sir Peter and John did their utmost with Mark. Motoring, cricket, tennis, golf--all had their turn. He was amiability itself, but he would not and could not be made to talk. They were at their wit's end when Phyllis and Peggy rejoined them, and Phyllis took Mark off to the garden.

Peggy sat with the men, chatting volubly. John's eyes followed Mark and Phyllis. When he could do so un.o.bserved, he touched Sir Peter's arm quietly, and directed his attention to them. Mark was talking at full speed; Phyllis was listening, and cutting roses into a basket.

"Yes," said Peggy, "we have had some ripping times. The most ripping was yesterday. We almost robbed England of her greatest living poet, by nearly running Mr. Kipling down, near Pevensey. It was in a narrow lane and he was walking with his chin on his chest. We supposed, of course, he heard us. Mark used the emergency brake; the car slewed around; he wasn't even grazed. And he took it as coolly as you please. John, if we had hit him, would you be next in line for laureate?"

"I hope he was thinking out a sequel to 'Kim,'" said Sir Peter. "I picked that book up in the club library one day when I had a quarter of an hour to kill. I sat there all the afternoon. I have read it three times, since."

"I liked 'Stalky' best. How do the pretty little jingles go, John?"

asked Peggy. She took a copy of "The Spectator" from the table, and turned the leaves, idly.

"Oh, jinglewise," answered John.

"My word! Listen to this," exclaimed Peggy; and then read--"'We should hesitate to say that Mr. Landless's name will stand higher than the second rank of poets. But so much praise he has fairly wrested from even the most captious reviewer. Indeed his "Lyrics" invite one to the dangerous pastime of prophecy; and prophecy of a bright future for this newest of our versifiers. Certainly, if the more serious work we are promised in "London: A Poem" (which is announced for the autumn) exceeds in dignity and restraint the best of his "Lyrics," we shall throw caution to the winds and predict great things for him. We observe two typographical errors on page--' Oh! who cares about the old typographical errors! Well, well, John. Isn't that splendid! What a happy girl Phil must be!"

"We are all very happy, Margaret," said Sir Peter. "And very proud to be related to him--even by marriage."

"And Phil tells me you have turned author, too," said Peggy to Sir Peter. "A young fellow like you to be writing your 'Recollections'!

Think how much more you will have to recollect if you wait a few years."

Sir Peter shook his finger at her.

"If you are not careful, young woman, I will put you into them--as I first remember you, very red and wrinkled."

Mark's and Peggy's stay was short--all too short. Mark settled down behind the wheel. "London, next," said he. Peggy's face was buried in roses as they drove off.

When they were seated again, under the trees, Phyllis regarding the baby with rapt eyes, John's curiosity suggested a question.

"Phyllis, please tell us what you set Mark to talking about. We tried everything."

"Why, about Peggy, of course," said Phyllis. "Silly! Couldn't you think of that?"

Mrs. Farquharson had awaited the departure of the Holroyds, and now, in her best black silk, came out to see the baby, and remained to chat for a few minutes. Her great news was that the first-floor front was in stocks again--with a prospect of seeing better days.