It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amusements are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time. Whether such indulgence and realisation of youthful dreams have a good effect on the character in later life is a different question. At any rate, to go to tea with the Pickerings was the dream of all their young friends and gave them much to think of and long for, while it gave to the young host and hostess immense gratification and material pride. "My birthday? Oh, I don't know--oh, it's on the twenty-seventh May," said Clifford, who was far more shy of the young lady than of her mother. "Fancy! Just fancy! and mine's on the twenty-eighth June! _Isn't_ it funny!" Cissy was surprised at almost everything. It added to her popularity. "Not particularly." "Oh, Clifford!" "You must be born some time or other, I mean," he said, wriggling his head and twisting his feet, as he did when he felt embarrassed. Miss Pickering made him feel embarrassed because she asked so many direct personal questions, seemed so interested and surprised at everything, and volunteered so much private--but, it seemed to him, unimportant--information. "My name is Cecilia Muriel Margaret Pickering. My birthday's on the twenty-eighth June, and Eustace's birthday is on the fifteenth February. Isn't it funny?" "No, not at all," said Clifford. "His name is Eustace Henry John Pickering, after father. At least John's after father and Henry's after grandpapa--I mean, mummy's father, you know. Eustace is just a fancy name--a name mummy thought of. Do you like it?" "Not much." "Oh, Clifford! Why not?" "Well, it's rather a queer name." "Do you call him Eustace?" "I call him Pickering, of course," said Clifford. "At school we don't know each other's Christian names." "Oh! ... Did you know mine before you came here, Clifford?" "No. I only knew he had a kiddy sister, but he didn't tell me your name." She looked rather crushed. Cissy was a lovely child with golden hair, parted on one side, and a dainty white and pink dress like a doll. Cissy was in love with Clifford, but Clifford was in love with her mother. This simple nursery tragedy may sound strange, but as a matter of fact it is a kind of thing that happens every day. Similar complications are to be found in almost every schoolroom. "I hope you don't mind my saying that," said Clifford, who began to be sorry for her. "About your being a kid. It doesn't matter a bit--for a girl." "Oh, Clifford! No, I don't mind." She smiled at him, consoled. "Eustace will soon be home. He's gone to get something." "Oh, good." "Do you mind his not being here yet?" "No, not a bit." "You told me you had something to show me," said the little girl. "You've been writing poetry. I _should_ so like to see it."