The duck had won, and Iris felt so glad that she longed to shake hands with it, and make it understand how clever she thought it. She was, indeed, so pleased that it was absolutely necessary to tell someone about it, and after she had smiled and nodded at the duck a great many times, to which it made no sort of response, she turned and ran quickly indoors. Now she lived so much alone at Paradise Court that she was ignorant that this very hour was sacred to Mrs Fotheringham's nap; it was most important that she should not be disturbed, and no one would lightly have done so who knew how much depended on it. If she did not get her nap she did not relish her dinner; and if she did not relish her dinner she was cross; and if she was cross the whole household was uncomfortable, for she could by no means suffer other people to be at rest if she were uneasy. On this particular afternoon she was well on the way to get a very comfortable doze. The day was warm; the room was carefully darkened Miss Munnion sat holding her book close to a crack in the Venetian blind, reaching aloud in a subdued and murmurous voice. Whether Mrs Fotheringham slept or not she had to go on for an hour. The old lady, drowsy with the unusual heat, was just on the edge of slumber, but still partly conscious; sometimes she lost a whole page of the book at a time, then she heard a little of it, and then Miss Munnion turned into a bee and buzzed in the window. Just at this critical moment Iris banged open the door and burst into the silent room. "Oh!" she cried in her shrill childish voice, "what _do_ you think the duck has done?" It was so dark after the bright sunlight out of doors that at first she did not see her godmother at all, but only Miss Munnion, who dropped her book in her lap and stared at her with a helpless and frightened face. Mrs Fotheringham started nervously; she grasped the arms of her chair and exclaimed half awake in an agitated voice: "What's the matter? Who's there? Who's done what?" "It's the duck," stammered Iris in a more subdued manner. "Is the chimney on fire?" continued Mrs Fotheringham. "I insist on knowing what's the matter. Miss Munnion, where are you? Why don't you find out what's the matter?" "It's something about a duck," said Miss Munnion slowly, "but I really-- don't--quite--" By this time Mrs Fotheringham was fully awake, and had recovered from her confusion. "You never _do, quite_," she said sharply. Then to Iris: "Child, come here and explain why you rush into the room in this abominable manner." Poor Iris advanced. She wished she could say that something was on fire, or that something more important had happened than the duck sitting under the bee-hive. It seemed nothing at all now, not the least amusing, and certainly not a sufficient reason for disturbing her godmother's nap. "I didn't know you were asleep," she began. "Keep to the point," said Mrs Fotheringham; "what did you do it for?"