In the open car from which he preferred to take his air when the weather was fine, as he told her with his manner of a bored little man of affairs, she scarcely could restrain the impulse to put her arm around him. Appreciating, however, his oldishness, she contented herself with finding his hand beneath the fur robe when a squirrel excited them by dashing across the road in peril of their tires. They did not drive for long. Sight of several children running races on the green brought from the cripple a crisp order of “Home, Herrick!” Dolores made no protest. She understood. But she held tight to the gloved fingers beneath the robe. “I never take any chances of missing John,” was the boy’s manufactured explanation. “He comes up to see me first thing after he gets home.” Back in his suite, the tedium of his shut-in life soon showed in returning irritability. “I do get so tired of women, women--always women! I don’t like them any more than they like me. Why can’t they get me a man governess?” And after a scowling moment: “What games do you know?” Dolores did not know any. “Games” had been considered the least necessary thing in her child life. Yet the moment was unpropitious for admitting the lack. Urgently she applied to her imagination. A smothered cheep from the towel-covered bird-cage brought inspiration. “Did you ever try,” she asked, “a game called ‘Turn-about’?” “No. How do you play it?” “Another name for it is ‘Fair-Play.’ Turn-about is fair-play, you know. First one of us--you or I--has his way. Then, turn-about, the other has his.” “Sounds like a queer game.” He considered a moment, as the possibilities of the idea opened before him. “You can do anything you like in your turn--all the naughty things you’ve wanted to do and didn’t dare?” “All of them--that is, all you still wish to do.” “All right. First go!” A crafty look lit the gray eyes. Turning, he shuffled across the room. “I’m going to do what your coming stopped me from doing--break this dog. I hate--_hate_--HATE it! It is just a stupid toy, but it goes faster than I can every time and it never hurts at all.” Without a word of protest, Dolores watched him hammer the floor with the device which was at once his ambition and his despair; allowed him to wrench it to pieces, legs from body and head from neck. “My turn now,” she said. “I’m going to take the towel from around Dick’s cage.” Sagacity was evidenced in the boy’s instant retort. “Then I’ll take my next turn putting it back again.”