“Christopher Carrington,” Joan sternly interrupted him, “one more word and I’ll call the police and commit you as a dangerous ogre, not fit to be at large. What in all this world makes you ask me that? As though any woman worth her salt would feel that way to a little child, even if it weren’t her own! And when it is----” Joan could end this sentence only with more violent kisses in the neck and all over the face of the ecstatically squirming Barbara. “Why, I only wish she were twins or triplets! I’d like a houseful of the darlings, all sizes, sorts, and colours! To be the mother of such a creature of God as this baby--Kit, it’s the most awful, the most beautiful thing in the world! Why did you ask me that? Whom have you heard talking like a monster, corrupting your naturally good heart?” “You’re a sharp little woman, though you don’t betray it always, Joan!” Kit said with amused admiration. “I’m not corrupted; I only wondered how you felt. All girls don’t like babies.” Joan gave him a keen look. “Avoid the kind that doesn’t,” she advised, tersely. “First God made angels, then us, and He made everybody but Adam and Eve a baby,” said little Anne, anxious as she always was to elevate the conversation to a catechetical standard. “So it would be wicked not to love babies when God made ’em for us to love, and then went and made ’em so darling that you have to love ’em. Herod didn’t, but he was a fearfully wicked king. They were all boys, anyway.” “And Barbara is a girl,” commented Kit. “I hope you don’t think boys are less fit to live than girls, little Anne?” “Well,” said little Anne, slowly, “Sister Gervase teaches the middle-sized ones at my school, and she says boys pass through a trying--I think she said ‛stage,’ but there aren’t any in Cleavedge; there are buses in New York on Fifth Avenue, and I rode on top, but I do think she said ‛stage.’ Sister says they have to be rather bad, but that there’s lots of good mixed up with it, too. Anyway, she says, what would we do if there weren’t any boys to grow up men, and that’s what I think.” “Do you?” said a gruff voice from the doorway, laden with pessimistic contempt. “What I think is that no boy at your age ever talked one-sixteenth part as much as you do, and if boys were more trying than girls I’d pity ’em. But what’s more, I’d pity their families.” Peter stalked into the room and threw down an armful of books, nodded to Kit, and said with the air of one who had outlived emotion: “I got your books changed at the library, Joan, but what you wanted was out, except that history essay stuff Antony wanted. And the girl over there sent something she hoped would suit you, but I don’t suppose it will.” “You poor dear Pete!” cried Joan. “You’re a trump to do this tiresome errand! If they’re not right, never mind; I’ll take them back in the baby’s carriage when I go out with her to-morrow. I’m sorry I didn’t do that in the first place; I’ve no business to be such a nuisance!”