"I wish you'd hurry her up."

Poppy went out into the hall and stood at the nursery door, which was ajar. Clem's voice could be heard inside arguing with a small, sullen one.

"Say them now, Cinthie--'Gentle Jesus----'"

"No, mummie."

"Yes, darling."

"I want you to sing 'Bye-low Lady.'"

"Not to-night, my dearest" (sound of a kiss); "there isn't time. Daddy's waiting for me to go to the theatre; we'll have longer sings to-morrow night. Say prayers now, Cinthie."

"No, mummie."

"Go on now, darling. Mother'll be cross with you in a minute. 'Gentle Jesus----'"

"No, mummie."

A silence.

"'Gentle Jesus'--Go on now, Cinthie--'Gentle Jesus--'"

"'Gentle Jesus'--sat on a wall," said the small voice, and burst into a peal of laughing. There was a rustling and Clem appeared at the nursery door gowned and gloved, her face bearing traces of smothered laughter.

But from the door she called back, in a voice intended to be most hauntingly sad:

"Mother's sorry her little girl is so naughty to-night. Good-night, Cinthie."

"G'night," was the cheerful response.

Clem came out into the hall and shut the door, and putting her arm in Poppy's hurried to the drawing-room, where Portal was offering up loud prayers for patience, and bemoaning the miserable, wasted lives of all married men.

"Time is simply nothing to them, I tell you!" he chanted. "It is no concern of theirs! They cannot wear it, nor give it to their offspring to play with! As for punctuality, it is a rule invented for men and dogs only--and rickshaw pullers. Ours has been waiting at the gate for twenty minutes--but _that's_ all right--what do _we_ care for the first act of a play?"

Clem took not the slightest notice. She turned to Poppy.

"And, darling, when you've finished your coffee I wish you'd go in and hear her prayers. She feels very much injured to-night--you will, won't you? I am so vexed that we have to go out and leave you--and _I do_ wish you would have come too. It might have made you forget all about that wicked fire."

"I shall be quite happy here, Clem. I have much to think of and plan; and, of course, I'll mind Cinthie. Be off now."

Poppy hustled her into her cloak and laces and saw them both off into the rickshaw. Afterwards she returned to the drawing-room, poured out her coffee, and took it into the nursery. Cinthie's little straight, white bed stood in the centre of the room, and she was lying with the sheet drawn up to her chin, two long pigtails stretching down on either side of her, and two big, dark eyes glooming out of the little, soft, dark face. Beside her on the pillow two still, inanimate forms glared glazily at the ceiling.

"Cinthie!"

"Eum!"

"Hallo, Cinthie!"

"Hallo!"

"You asleep?"

"No, not yet."

"Sure you're not?"

"No, I'm not, Poppy." She sat up in bed and gave a lively prance to show she was awake.

"Well, I've come to have a little talk."

Cinthie made a joyful noise that sounded like _corn-cookoo_, and gave another prance.

Poppy sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her coffee, tendering to Cinthie an occasional spoonful, which was supped up rapturously.

"Who've you got there with you?"

"Two my chil'ren."

"Which ones?"

"_Daisy-b.u.t.tercup_ 'n _Oscar_"

"Oh! have they said their prayers yet?"

A pause, then:

"I didn't tell them to say prairses to-night."

"Not?" cried Poppy, in shocked surprise.

"No." (A pause.) "They's too tired."

"Oh, but Cinthie! Fancy, if they died in their sleep! How sorry they'd be they hadn't said their prayers."

An uncomfortable pause. Poppy drank some more coffee.

"I know _you_ would never go to sleep without saying _your_ prayers."

A silence.

"I hope you prayed for me to-night, sweetness?"

A silence.

"--And for that darling mummie of yours?"

Silence.