"A first-class baby?" His harping maddened her. "A healthy little buffer to send to Eton and represent us in the Regiment, and inherit the title presently when his poor old Pater pops? Just look me in the face like the little sport you are, Margot, and tell me that you’re playing square with me. For this—for this is the game of Life!" He had both her hands. He made her look at him. She met his eager stare with limpid eyes. And all the while that sentence of Saxham’s about the pre-natal poisoning of the springs of existence, drummed, drummed at the back of her brain. "_What a little beast I am!_" she mentally commented, hearing her own voice answering: "I’ve told you No, and that I am playing square with you!" She grasped the fact that Franky had suffered, by the grunt of relief with which he loosed her hands. "And so it’s settled I go to Berlin about the middle of—September, say?" "Wow-wow! It’s us for the gay life! Just when the beastly hole’s as dusty as the Sahara and as hot as hell!" "You won’t be in the beastly hole, and perhaps I needn’t go before the beginning of October. You can go down to Brakehills and slay away at the pheasants, and run over when I cable, to bring me back——" "With my boy! Our boy, Kittums!" His simple, kind face was quivering. He put out a strong brown hand and laid it on hers, and she gave the hand a little affectionate nip: "Hullo!" Perhaps he talked on to cover up the momentary lapse into sentiment. "Pipe old St. George’s, where we did the deed! Hardly seems close on six months since we got spliced, does it? And there’s the Bijou Cottage...." Franky thus irreverently designated the large, drab, stucco-faced, eminently respectable if mousey mansion on the Square’s east side, where Margot’s bachelor Uncle Derek lived with his collection of moths and beetles. "Shall we stop and give the old gentleman a cheero? Is he at all likely to be in?" His hand was on the silk-netted rubber bulb of the chauffeur’s whistle, when Margot caught it back. "No, don’t stop! Of course he’s in. He never goes out, unless it is to a meeting of the Entomological Society, or the Museum of Natural History, or some other place equally stuffy and scientific. Besides, Uncle Derek is a vegetarian—and there wouldn’t be anything but tomato soup, and pea-flour cutlets, and Lepidoptera for lunch!" "Poor little woman, was she peckish, then? All lity, we’ll chuff along and fill up tanks at the Club. Bally odd bill of fare, pea-flour cutlets and Lepidop—what’s-their-names? But we’ll get things nearly as rummy served up to us in Berlin. Pork chops with sweet gooseberry sauce, and pink sausages with lilac cabbage and dumplings. Why do you look so scared?" She forced a laugh. "Not scared, but you said ’_we_’ ..."