linging. That would have been John's
description of it; and he is a poet.

"Hullo, Phyllis," said John.

"S-h-h," said Phyllis.

"S-h-h, John," said Sir Peter.

Phyllis laid her precious burden in the perambulator, near Sir Peter's
chair.

"Mark and Peggy will be here in half an hour," she announced. "She
telephoned from Whinstead. Isn't it characteristic of Peggy?--a
motor-car wedding-journey. They are having the most glorious time, she
said. They can't stay, though; just a call."

"Whinstead, eh?" said John. "Well, if Mark is driving, he will cut that
thirty minutes to twenty. I shall barely finish this page before they
get here."

He was engaged upon the revision of "Old Valentines, and Other Poems,"
for the second edition. The little book, bound in red, with golden
cupids, lay open on the table.

"Uncle Peter, see how beautifully baby is sleeping," said Phyllis.

Sir Peter adjusted his eyeglass, and peeped under the parasol.

"I must speak to Burbage about tea," added Phyllis. "Just keep half an
eye--"

"Both eyes, my dear," said Sir Peter. With his foot he drew the
perambulator a little nearer to him.

John looked up from his writing.

"Give me a synonym for 'austerity,'" he commanded.

"'Sternness,'" suggested Phyllis.

"'Severity,'" said Sir Peter.

"'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