“I want a ’tory about piggy-wiggies.” “Try a giant, Selina,” said Doris, in the coaxing voice of a nurse offering a delicacy to an invalid. “Don’t _want_ a giant,” replied the pig fancier. “I want piggy-wiggies.” “Who’s this that wants piggy-wiggies?” came a voice from the door. “Oh, I beg pardon—thought there was no one here. May I come in?” “No room, no room,” cried Miss Lestrange; “we are telling stories.” “There’s plenty of room,” replied Mr Fanshawe, paraphrasing the heroine of “Alice in Wonderland,” and crossing the floor at the same time. “I say, how jolly you all look sitting round the fire!” Selina, seeing the newcomer, looked at him for a moment critically, forgot pigs completely, and held out her arms to him. “Selina has never done that to any one before,” said Doris; “she hates strangers, as a rule, and always cries at them.” “There, take her,” said Miss Lestrange, handing the white bundle to Mr Fanshawe, who sat down with it on the chair vacated by Bob; “but take the responsibility also—you have to tell her a story about a pig.” “Right,” replied Mr Fanshawe, whilst Selina settled herself to listen; and Bob and his sister, who didn’t care much for stories of Selina’s level, amused themselves on the floor with a clock-work motor-car which Uncle Molyneux had brought them from London. The whizz and snarl of the motor-car as it made frantic gyrations on the nursery floor half obscured Mr Fanshawe’s voice. “There was once a little pig,” began Mr Fanshawe, “and he lived in a sty—I say, things were pretty dull in the dining-room when you left. Did you ever hear Boxall on the preferential tariff question?—Boxall with his muzzle off? Uncle’s bad to beat when he’s on the first Sikh war, but Boxall—Yes, yes, Selina, where was I?—There was once a little pig and he lived in a sty and he had bran mash for dinner. He had three little brothers and three little sisters—now count them to yourself, and I’ll give you a penny if you tell me how many little brothers and sisters he had—count them five times over and I’ll give you tuppence—So I just bolted, and Patsy said you were here—Do you know Patsy, the red-headed page-boy?—So I thought I’d come up and see. Oh, Violet—It’s all right, I’m not talking loud enough for them to hear—but I’ve been half cracked for the last few months. This can’t go on, there’s no use talking. Do you know why uncle is trying to separate us? It’s just from viciousness. You don’t know him; he hates me—why? for no reason at all; we don’t get on, that’s all—ever since I was a boy it has been the same. You see, uncle is like nothing so much in the world as a vicious old maid who has been crossed in love and hates to see other people happy. Violet, darling——