Though three people sat down at the dinner table, it was a _diner à deux_ so far as the conversation was concerned. The women discussed the Primrose League Fête, and Lord Parallax, whom Gertrude Canterton had found rather disappointing. From mere local topics they travelled into the wilderness of eugenics, Mrs. Brocklebank treating of Mendelism, and talking as though Canterton had never heard of Mendel. It amused him to listen to her, especially since the work of such master men as Mendel and De Vries formed part of the intimate inspiration of his own study of the strange beauty of growth. Mrs. Brocklebank appeared to have muddled up Mendelism with Galton’s theory of averages. She talked sententiously of pure dominants and recessives, got her figures badly mixed, and uttered some really astonishing things that would have thrilled a scientific audience. Yet it was dreary stuff when devitalised by Mrs. Brocklebank’s pompous inexactitudes, especially when accompanied by an interminable cracking of nuts. She always ended lunch and dinner with nuts, munching them slowly and solemnly, exaggerating her own resemblance to a white cow chewing the cud. Canterton escaped upstairs, passed Miss Vance on the landing, a motherly young woman with rich brown hair, and made his way to the nursery. The room was full of the twilight, and through the open window came the last notes of a thrush. Lynette was lying in a white bed with a green coverlet. Her mother had ordered a pink bedspread, but Miss Vance had thought of Lynette’s hair. Canterton sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, Princess, are you a pure dominant?” “I’ve said my prayers, daddy.” “Oh, that’s good—very good! I wonder how the feast is getting on in the Wilderness?” “They won’t come out yet, not till the moon shines.” “Think of their little silver slippers twinkling like dewdrops on the grass.” “I wish I could see them, daddy. Have you ever seen a fairy?” “I think I’ve caught a glimpse of one, now and again. But you have to be ever so good to see fairies.” “You ought to have seen lots, then, daddy.” He laughed, the quiet, meditative laugh of the man wise in his own humility. “There are more wonderful things than fairies, Lynette. I’ll tell you about them some day.” “Yes, do.” She sat up in bed, her hair a dark flowing mass about her slim face and throat, and Canterton was reminded of some exquisite white bud that promised to be an exquisite flower. “Let’s have some rhymes, daddy.” “What, more Bed Ballads?” “Yes.” “What shall we start with?” “Begin with cat.” “All right, let’s see what turns up: “Outside the door there lay a cat, Aunt Emma thought it was a mat, And though poor Puss was rather fat, Aunt Emma left her, simply—flat.” “Oh, poor Pussy!” “Rather too realistic for you, and too hard on the cat!” “Make up something about Mister Bruin.” “Bruin. That’s a stiff thing to rhyme to. Let’s see: