He lowered his head, and she hung in the air, swinging from his neck, laughing. Then she slipped off. “The kettle is singing,” she sang, flying for the teapot. He bent down again to blow the fire. The veins in his neck stood out, his shirt collar seemed too tight. “Doctor Wyer, Blow the fire, Puff! puff! puff!” she sang, laughing. He smiled at her. She was so glad because of her pearl ear-rings. Over the breakfast she grew serious. He did not notice. She became portentous in her gravity. Almost it penetrated through his steady good-humour to irritate him. “Teddy!” she said at last. “What?” he asked. “I told you a lie,” she said, humbly tragic. His soul stirred uneasily. “Oh aye?” he said casually. She was not satisfied. He ought to be more moved. “Yes,” she said. He cut a piece of bread. “Was it a good one?” he asked. She was piqued. Then she considered—_was_ it a good one? Then she laughed. “No,” she said, “it wasn’t up to much.” “Ah!” he said easily, but with a steady strength of fondness for her in his tone. “Get it out then.” It became a little more difficult. “You know that white stocking,” she said earnestly. “I told you a lie. It wasn’t a sample. It was a valentine.” A little frown came on his brow. “Then what did you invent it as a sample for?” he said. But he knew this weakness of hers. The touch of anger in his voice frightened her. “I was afraid you’d be cross,” she said pathetically. “I’ll bet you were vastly afraid,” he said. “I _was_, Teddy.” There was a pause. He was resolving one or two things in his mind. “And who sent it?” he asked. “I can guess,” she said, “though there wasn’t a word with it—except——” She ran to the sitting-room and returned with a slip of paper. “Pearls may be fair, but thou art fairer. Wear these for me, and I’ll love the wearer.” He read it twice, then a dull red flush came on his face. “And _who_ do you guess it is?” he asked, with a ringing of anger in his voice. “I suspect it’s Sam Adams,” she said, with a little virtuous indignation. Whiston was silent for a moment. “Fool!” he said. “An’ what’s it got to do with pearls?—and how can he say ‘wear these for me’ when there’s only one? He hasn’t got the brain to invent a proper verse.” He screwed the sup of paper into a ball and flung it into the fire. “I suppose he thinks it’ll make a pair with the one last year,” she said. “Why, did he send one then?” “Yes. I thought you’d be wild if you knew.” His jaw set rather sullenly.