Presently the two children left their uncle alone, and he observed with pride that they took with them the book. He little thought that so mild a dose of romance as could be extracted from Kingsley's _Heroes_ would before the twilight of that November day run through 36 Church Row like fire. But then John did not know that there was a calf's head for dinner that night; he had not realized the scenic capacity of the cistern cupboard at the top of the house; and most of all he had not associated with dressing up on Sunday afternoon the histrionic force that Bertram and Viola inherited from their mother. "Is it Androm[e]da or Andr[o]meda?" Bertram asked at lunch. "Andr[o]meda, my boy," John answered. "Perseus and Andromeda." "I think it would make a jolly good play, don't you?" Bertram went on. Really, thought John, this nephew was a great improvement upon that spectacled inquisitor at Ambles. "A capital play," he agreed, heartily. "Are you thinking of writing it?" "V and I thought we'd do it instead of finishing Robinson Crusoe. Well, you see, you haven't got any decent fur rugs, and V's awfully stupid about having her face blacked." "It's my turn not to be a savage," Viola pleaded in defense of her squeamishness. "I said you could be Will Atkins as well. I know I'd jolly well like to be Will Atkins myself." "All right," Viola offered. "You can, and I'll be Robinson." "You can't change like that in the middle of a play," her brother argued. John, who appreciated both Viola's dislike of burnt-cork and Bertram's esthetic objection to changing parts in the middle of a piece, strongly recommended Perseus and Andromeda. "Of course, you got the idea from Kingsley? Bravo, Bertram," he said, beaming with cordial patronage. "And I suppose," his nephew went on, "that you'd rather we played at the top of the house. I expect it would be quieter, if you're writing letters. Mother said you often liked to be quiet." He alluded to this desire rather shamefully, as if it were a secret vice of his uncle, who hurriedly approved the choice of the top landing for the scene of the classic drama. "Then would you please tell Mrs. Worfolk that we can have the calf's head?" "The what?" "V found a calf's head in the larder, and it would make a fizzing Gorgon's head, but Mrs. Worfolk wouldn't let us have it." John was so much delighted with the trend of Bertram's ingenuity that he sent for Mrs. Worfolk and told her that the calf's head might be borrowed for the play. "I'll take no responsibility for your dinner," said his housekeeper, warningly. "That's all right, Mrs. Worfolk. If anything happens to the head I shan't grumble. There'll always be the cold beef, won't there?" Mrs. Worfolk turned up her eyes to heaven and left the room. "Well, I think I've arranged that for you successfully." "Thank you, Uncle John," said Bertram. "Thank you, Uncle John," said Viola.