With almost a stealthy touch Cyril closed the door back of him, and advanced a little dubiously toward his son. His countenance carried a mixture of guilt, curiosity, and dogged determination so ludicrous that it was a pity none but baby eyes could see it. As if to meet more nearly on a level this baffling new acquaintance, Cyril got to his knees--somewhat stiffly, it must be confessed--and faced his son. “Goo--eee--ooo--yah!” crowed the baby now, thrashing legs and arms about in a transport of joy at the acquisition of this new playmate. “Well, well, young man, you--you don't say so!” stammered the growingly-proud father, thrusting a plainly timid and unaccustomed finger toward his offspring. “So you do know me, eh? Well, who am I?” “Da--da!” gurgled the boy, triumphantly clutching the outstretched finger, and holding on with a tenacity that brought a gleeful chuckle to the lips of the man. “Jove! but aren't you the strong little beggar, though! Needn't tell me you don't know a good thing when you see it! So I'm 'da-da,' am I?” he went on, unhesitatingly accepting as the pure gold of knowledge the shameless imitation vocabulary his son was foisting upon him. “Well, I expect I am, and--” “Oh, Cyril!” The door had opened, and Marie was in the room. If she gave a start of surprise at her husband's unaccustomed attitude, she quickly controlled herself. “Julia said you wanted me. I must have been going down the back stairs when you came up the front, and--” “Please, Mrs. Henshaw, is it Dot you have in here, or Dimple?” asked a new voice, as the second nurse entered by another door. Before Mrs. Henshaw could answer, Cyril, who had got to his feet, turned sharply. “Is it--_who_?” he demanded. “Oh! Oh, Mr. Henshaw,” stammered the girl. “I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here. It was only that I wanted to know which baby it was. We thought we had Dot with us, until--” “Dot! Dimple!” exploded the man. “Do you mean to say you have given my _sons_ the ridiculous names of '_Dot_' and '_Dimple_'?” “Why, no--yes--well, that is--we had to call them something,” faltered the nurse, as with a despairing glance at her mistress, she plunged through the doorway. Cyril turned to his wife. “Marie, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “Why, Cyril, dear, don't--don't get so wrought up,” she begged. “It's only as Mary said, we _had_ to call them something, and--” “Wrought up, indeed!” interrupted Cyril, savagely. “Who wouldn't be? 'Dot' and 'Dimple'! Great Scott! One would think those boys were a couple of kittens or puppies; that they didn't know anything--didn't have any brains! But they have--if the other is anything like this one, at least,” he declared, pointing to his son on the floor, who, at this opportune moment joined in the conversation to the extent of an appropriate “Ah--goo--da--da!”