.

Hilary and Peter stepped up two water-washed steps to the green door, and
Peggy opened it from within. Peggy (Peter occasionally wondered when, if
ever, she went to bed) was in the hall, nursing Illuminato, who couldn't
sleep--a small bundle of scarlet night-shirt and round bullet head,
burrowing under his mother's left arm and staring out from that place of
comfort with very bright and wakeful eyes. When, indeed, it might have
been asked, did any of the Margerison family take their rest? No one of
them ever felt or expressed any surprise at finding any other awake and
active at any hour of the night.

Peggy looked at her three male infants with her maternal serenity touched
with mirth. There were nearly always those two elements in Peggy's
look--a motherly sympathy and desire to cheer and soothe, and a glint
from some rich and golden store of amusement.

She patted Peter on the arm, softly.

"Was it a nice evening, then? No, not very, I think. Dear, dear! You both
look so unutterably tired. I wonder had you better go to bed, quite
straight?"

It seemed to be suggested as a last resource of the desperate, though the
hour was close on midnight.

"And the children have been pillow-fighting, till Mr. Vyvian--the
creature--came down with nothing in particular on, to complain to me
that he couldn't sleep. Sleep, you know! It wasn't after ten--but it
seems he had a headache, as usual, because Mrs. Johnson had insisted
on going to look at pictures with him and Rhoda, and her remarks were
such--Nervous prostration, poor Mr. Vyvian. So I've had Illuminato
down here with me since then. He wants to go to you, Peter, as usual."

Peter took the scarlet bundle, and it burrowed against his shirt-front
with a contented sigh. Peggy watched the two for a moment, then said to
the uncle, "You poor little boy, you're tireder than Hilary even. You
must surely go to bed. But isn't Lord Evelyn rather a dear?"

"Quite a dear," Peter answered her, his face bent over the round cropped
head. "Altogether charming and delightful. Do you know, though, I'm not
really fond of bridge. Jig-saw is my game--and we didn't have it. That's
why I'm tired I expect. And because there was a Mr. Cheriton, who stared,
and seemed somehow to have taken against us--didn't he, Hilary? Or
perhaps it was only his queer manners, dear Jim. Anyhow, he made me feel
shy. It takes it out of one, not being liked. Nervous prostration, like
poor Mr. Vyvian. So let's g