“Do you see those three innocent darlings playing together, under the eye of their governess, by the Wellingtonia yonder?” enquired the lady. “The little girl in white and the two boys?” asked Peter. “Precisely,” said she. “Such as they are, they're me own.” “Really?” he responded, in the tone of profound and sympathetic interest we are apt to affect when parents begin about their children. “I give you my word for it,” she assured him. “But I mention the fact, not in a spirit of boastfulness, but merely to show you that I 'm not entirely alone and unprotected. There's an American at our hotel, by the bye, who goes up and down telling every one who'll listen that it ought to be Washingtonia, and declaiming with tears in his eyes against the arrogance of the English in changing Washington to Wellington. As he's a respectable-looking man with grown-up daughters, I should think very likely he's right.” “Very likely,” said Peter. “It's an American tree, is n't it?” “Whether it is n't or whether it is,” said she, “one thing is undeniable: you English are the coldest-blooded animals south of the Arctic Circle.” “Oh--? Are we?” he doubted. “You are that,” she affirmed, with sorrowing emphasis. “Ah, well,” he reflected, “the temperature of our blood does n't matter. We're, at any rate, notoriously warm-hearted.” “Are you indeed?” she exclaimed. “If you are, it's a mighty quiet kind of notoriety, let me tell you, and a mighty cold kind of warmth.” Peter laughed. “You're all for prudence and expediency. You're the slaves of your reason. You're dominated by the head, not by the heart. You're little better than calculating-machines. Are you ever known, now, for instance, to risk earth and heaven, and all things between them, on a sudden unthinking impulse?” “Not often, I daresay,” he admitted. “And you sit there as serene as a brazen statue, and own it without a quaver,” she reproached him. “Surely,” he urged, “in my character of Englishman, it behooves me to appear smug and self-satisfied?” “You're right,” she agreed. “I wonder,” she continued, after a moment's pause, during which her eyes looked thoughtful, “I wonder whether you would fall upon and annihilate a person who should venture to offer you a word of well-meant advice.” “I should sit as serene as a brazen statue, and receive it without a quaver,” he promised. “Well, then,” said she, leaning forward a little, and dropping her voice, “why don't you take your courage in both hands, and ask her?” Peter stared. “Be guided by me--and do it,” she said. “Do what?” he puzzled.