“If she’ll let me! Nice kid!” said Kit, shortly, and was gone. “Don’t mock Kit’s idols. He’s like most quiet and peaceable people; when he’s offended he’s hard to placate, and when he’s disgusted he’s not to be won back. Kit’s tremendously fond of his friends. But I share his pleasure in that precocious innocent, with her delightful combination of normal mischief with abnormal conscientiousness,” warned Miss Carrington. Kit found all the Berkleys at home, as he had hoped to, with the addition of Joan Paul and her baby. Little Anne saw him coming and ran shrieking joyously to haul him into the house, as if he would be likely to escape her unless she put forth her best strength. “Here’s Kit! See, here’s Kit, Motherkins! Kit’s come!” she announced needlessly as she towed him into the room. Mrs. Berkley arose with her white sewing held in her left hand, and gave her right hand cordially to the young man. “Very glad to see you,” she said. “I’ve tried to make Anne remember that you are Mr. Carrington, but she loves you too well to retain my instructions.” “Sure! Because I’m not! I’m Kit, eh, Anne? Your little purring kit, or at least I purr when I see you!” said Kit. “You’re lovely!” Little Anne sighed enthusiastically over his nonsense. “Hallo, Mother Joan! Don’t break that baby! Aren’t you holding her carelessly?” Kit demanded, shaking Joan’s hand and looking anxiously at Barbara, held under her young mother’s left arm, her head in front sticking up like a turtle’s, her heels kicking hard and fast on Joan’s waist at the back. “Can’t you trust me with her, Kit? I’m glad that you recognize how precious she is, but, honestly, I like her myself and don’t want to damage her,” laughed Joan, bringing her daughter right side up into her arms and kissing her fat neck till the baby choked herself with giggles. “Say, Joan, there’s something I want to be told. Set it down to my scientific bent: investigation of socialism, or economics, or anything statistical you please, but I do want to learn something: Does that baby ever tire you?” Kit asked his question hesitantly. “I should say she does, half to pieces,” said Joan, promptly. “I’m sometimes tempted to try ether on her at night! You know those verses of Mrs. Kilmer’s about keeping her children asleep? Maybe I don’t say them!” Joan kissed Barbara again to punctuate her confession. “But you don’t tire of her the way I mean, do you?” persisted Kit. “You don’t ever feel as if she weren’t quite worth while, as if you’d rather be free from the bother----”