“No, indeed,” she said, still in her schoolteacher voice. “I’m sure the other children do not want to play games like that. Tell me what you play at school.” But again there was silence. Though some of the little boys had giggled, there were indications that most of the children did want to play “kissing games,” probably because those were the only indoor games they knew. “Why not let them play the games they’re accustomed to playing—isn’t there one called—er—post-office?” he questioned the little girl. She nodded emphatically, and Miss Gilchrist, casting looks expressive of deep disgust at both Terry and Ruth, departed. In her absence the children seemed to gain confidence. They told Terry their names and recalled to him such details of the fascinating game of post-office as he had forgotten. “D’you really mean you never played it?” he asked Ruth. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was so important.” “No child’s education complete without it; but it’s never too late to mend your ways, so you can learn now.” At first Ruth couldn’t help feeling rather ridiculous, but the children after five minutes of play seemed to regard her as one of them, and Terry was perhaps a bit younger than the youngest boy there. They progressed from one game to another, and to Ruth it seemed that every game, no matter how harmless on the surface, called for some declaration in rhyme about “the un that I luf best,” followed by a kiss to prove it, and she was in constant fear that the etiquette of play would require that she kiss Terry, but it never did. Evidently Terry understood these things far better than she did, for while he kissed every little maid in the room and every little boy made declaration of his love for her, they never had to kiss each other. Still it was a relief when tea was brought in; a relief to the children as well, if one could judge by the enthusiasm with which they greeted it, and afterward John Peyton-Russell and Angela and Gloria and even Prince Aglipogue came in to see the distribution of gifts. They all sat in rows, “Like in Sunday School,” as Ruth heard one of the little girls whisper, while Mr. Peyton-Russell made a little speech and gave out the gifts. Gloria’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were unnaturally bright, Ruth thought, but as always under stress of emotion, she was hiding behind words, amusing words with a touch of acid behind them. “He used to invite the parents, too,” she told Ruth; “sort of lord of the manor pose; but he found that American farmers do not lend themselves well to the tenantry idea; they came and then sent him invitations as a return of hospitality. They simply would not be faithful retainers, and then”— “I’m afraid Aggie’s being bored—not enough to drink for one thing—Angela is so conservative—dinner tonight will cheer him—some more people coming; the Brixtons and their guests, I think. Hope Percy has the good grace to keep to his rooms even though he didn’t leave.”