The subsequent hour was just the sort of hour that gave Mr. Pope an almost meteorological importance to his family. He began with an amiability that had no fault, except, perhaps, that it was a little forced after the epistolary strain in the study, and his welcome to Marjorie was more than cordial. "Well, little Madge-cat!" he said, giving her an affectionate but sound and heavy thump on the left shoulder-blade, "got a kiss for the old daddy?" Marjorie submitted a cheek. "That's right," said Mr. Pope; "and now I just want you all to advise me----" He led the way to a group of wicker garden chairs. "You're coming, mummy?" he said, and seated himself comfortably and drew out a spectacle case, while his family grouped itself dutifully. It made a charming little picture of a Man and his Womankind. "I don't often flatter myself," he said, "but this time I think I've been neat--neat's the word for it." He cleared his throat, put on his spectacles, and emitted a long, flat preliminary note, rather like the sound of a child's trumpet. "Er--'Dear Sir!'" "Rom," said Mrs. Pope, "don't creak your chair." "It's Daffy, mother," said Rom. "Oh, _Rom!_" said Daffy. Mr. Pope paused, and looked with a warning eye over his left spectacle-glass at Rom. "Don't creak your chair, Rom," he said, "when your mother tells you." "I was _not_ creaking my chair," said Rom. "I heard it," said Mr. Pope, suavely. "It was Daffy." "Your mother does not think so," said Mr. Pope. "Oh, all right! I'll sit on the ground," said Rom, crimson to the roots of her hair. "Me too," said Daffy. "I'd rather." Mr. Pope watched the transfer gravely. Then he readjusted his glasses, cleared his throat again, trumpeted, and began. "Er--'Dear Sir,'" "Oughtn't it to be simply 'Sir,' father, for an editor?" said Marjorie. "Perhaps I didn't explain, Marjorie," said her father, with the calm of great self-restraint, and dabbing his left hand on the manuscript in his right, "that this is a _private_ letter--a private letter." "I didn't understand," said Marjorie. "It would have been evident as I went on," said Mr. Pope, and prepared to read again. This time he was allowed to proceed, but the interruptions had ruffled him, and the gentle stresses that should have lifted the subtleties of his irony into prominence missed the words, and he had to go back and do his sentences again. Then Rom suddenly, horribly, uncontrollably, was seized with hiccups. At the second hiccup Mr. Pope paused, and looked very hard at his daughter with magnified eyes; as he was about to resume, the third burst its way through the unhappy child's utmost effort. Mr. Pope rose with an awful resignation. "That's enough," he said. He regarded the pseudo-twin vindictively. "You haven't the self-control of a child of six," he said. Then very touchingly to Mrs. Pope: "Mummy, shall we try a game of tennis with the New Generation?" "Can't you read it after supper?" asked Mrs. Pope.