t Bud recognized a play-fellow.
I heard the pair romping upstairs as the Cashier made dressing for
dinner a game in which the little child could join.

[Illustration: "The picture of her, sitting in the half light at the
grand piano, with the babies in her arms and at her knee ... was quite
irresistible"]

But before we sat down to dinner both babies had been put to bed. The
Cashier remained with me while Azalea was busy at this task, but he
excused himself toward the last, and went tiptoeing upstairs, where I
think he must have offered his services in getting the children tucked
away. While he was gone the Philosopher arrived.

I let him in myself, motioning the maid away. It was a small house, and
I knew she was needed in the kitchen. "Don't make a bit of noise," I
cautioned him, as he came smiling into the little hall. "The babies are
going to bed."

"Babies!" whispered the Philosopher, in an awestruck way. "I didn't know
there were any babies."

"Of course you knew it," I whispered back, leading him into the room.
"If you would only store away really important facts in that capacious
mind of yours, instead of limiting it to----"

"Tell me how many babies, and of what sex--quick!" commanded the
Philosopher, "or I shall say the wrong thing. And how on earth do they
come to know enough to put their babies to bed before they ask a
bachelor to dine, anyhow?"

I hastily set him straight upon these points, adding that Azalea had
developed wonderfully.

"You mean she can soar to high Q now, I suppose?" interpreted the
Philosopher.

"Not at all. I mean that she's----"

But they were coming downstairs together. The Cashier's arm was about
his wife's shoulders; he removed it only just in time to save his
dignity as he entered.

"I'm disappointed not to see the boy and girl," declared the Philosopher
genially. The Cashier took him by the shoulders and turned him toward
the light, laughing. "That was bravely said," he answered. "How did you
know but we might go and wake them up for you to see?"

The dinner was quite unpretentious, but very good. Evidently Azalea had
a capable servant. We talked gaily, the Cashier proving an adept at
keeping the ball in the air, and keenly appreciative of others' attempts
to meet him at the sport.

By and by, when we were back in the room where the grand piano stood,
and conversation had reached a momentary halt, Azalea went to the piano.
"Come, Arthur," she said, sitting down a