“George,” said Fenella, putting a coaxing little face round his shoulder, “could you--_would_ you mind putting a bit of cotton wool in your ear on this side, because I want to talk to--to Lord Francis? I’ve got a bit in my pocket somewhere, I know.” George’s face flickered, as he expressed himself quite agreeable, but was rather surprised, as blue-blooded people usually talk before their inferiors as if they had no more hearing and understanding faculties than tables or chairs. When the wool was produced out of a smart little pocket, he proceeded to plug his ear gravely, and even rammed it down hard to show that his intentions were strictly honorable. This business over, Fenella turned round and showed a little laughing face that seemed to have caught all the sunshine of the day, aye, and held it fast. “I always carry a bit in my pocket for Ronny,” she said, “as he gets a touch of earache sometimes. What’s that? They can hear us behind? Oh? no, the trot of the horses’ feet swallows up our voices. Let them talk. They will say I picked you up!” “So you did. Do you know any of them?” “Heaven forbid! A woman, my dear, who _never_ sits in the drawing room with the other ladies,” said Fenella, adroitly mimicking a sour female voice, “there _must_ be something wrong about her. And so there is,” she added, below her breath, and for a moment the little face grew hard. “How is Ronny?” said Frank. “He is very well,” she said nonchalantly. “Poor wee man, isn’t it a good job he isn’t a girl? And he hasn’t begun to grow ugly and horrid and masculine yet--he is all mine, mine!” The mother’s love in her rang out triumphantly, and her face grew very tender. “We have such good times together, he and I,” she went on happily; “he is not with me to-day, because he is playing cricket at the present moment. We go down to the Stray with the bat and stumps, and forage round for a scratch team. I took a hand myself the other day, and actually bowled out a butcher’s boy!” Frank laughed, then shook his head. “You are quite as mad as ever,” he said. “Where is your companion?” “I _hope_,” said Fenella calmly, “that she is dead. I didn’t try to polish off any of the other ones, because they meant well in spite of their aggravatingness, but she was downright _wicked_. So I led her a life,” she concluded, looking as triumphantly happy as a child who plays truant on a glorious day with a pocketful of pennies and burnt almonds. Frank shook his head sadly. “Why won’t you be good, Fenella?” he said. “You could be so easily.” “I always am,” said Fenella promptly, and nodded her curly head close to his nose. “I take sulphur baths, and regularly _sneeze_ sulphur. I get up every morning at half-past seven. Just think of that! It’s a fearful scramble, because Ronny never will wake up. He sleeps just like you, for ever and ever.” She stopped, and colored vividly, then dashed on again breathlessly, “And of course it takes some time to dress him.”