absolutely lacking in tact.

"Then oy shall go and play with The Boys, because the forg's
a-stoarping." But this was an empty threat, as Dave knew perfectly well
that Uncle Mo would not allow him to go out of doors so late, even if
the fog melted, since its immediate cessation would have left London in
the dark, for it was past the Official hour of sunset.

Dolly said again:--"No, you sarn't!" and went on with the arrangements.
"You take _tite_ hold of Pussy, and stop her off doin' on ve scushions.
Gweng to paw out the tea, only to wait faw the hot water! Ven I shall go
in the chair with scushions, and be Mrs. Spicture. And ven you to leave
hold of Pussy, and be Gwanny Mawwowbone on the sofa." The
supernumeraries were _intransigeant_ and troublesome; that is to say,
their representative the Cat was.

Dave, whose enjoyment of these games was beginning to be marred by his
coming manhood--for see how old he was getting!--utilised magnanimity as
an excuse for concession. He kept the supers in check while Dolly
suggested an attitude to Gweng. Gweng had only to wait for hot water, so
it was easy to find one. Dolly then scrambled into the chair with
cushions, and the supernumeraries wedged themselves round her and
purred, in the person of the Cat. But having made this much concession,
Dave struck.

Instead of accepting his part, he went to the window. "Oy can see across
the way," said he. "Oy don't call it a forg when you can see the
gairslamp all the way across the Court. That hoyn't a forg! Oy say,
Dolly, oy'm a-going for to see Uncle Mo round to The Sun parlour, and
boy a hoypny sorcer coming back. Oy _am_!"

Dolly shook a mass of rough gold that cried aloud for a comb, and said
with sweet gravity:--"You tarn't!"

"Why not?" Dave's indignation at this statement made him shout. "Why
carn't oy, same as another boy?"

"Because you're Gwanny Mawwowbone, all ve time. You tarn't _help_ it."
Dolly's solemn nods, and a pathos that seemed to grieve over the
inevitable, left Dave speechless, struggling in vain against the
identity he had so rashly undertaken to assume.

Susan Burr missed a great deal of this, and marked what she heard but
little. She only knew that the children were happy, and that their
happiness must end. Even her own grief--for think what old Maisie's
death meant to her!--was hushed at the thought of how these babies could
be told, could have their first great grief burst upon them. She felt
sick, and on