"Because it is a hundred and fifty years old; and because you have to be so careful not to bump its head, when you carry it about." Helen put her hand to her throat. "I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly. "Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told, gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!" Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting her eyes, she made the tea. Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so perfect to be back in his own chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to show her. Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had expected. Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke. Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it, touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a cup of tea. He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare--that would be impossible with Helen so near--but an exquisite dream; a dream too perfectly beautiful to be true. "Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag. We must have a proper case made for it. Aubrey said _you_ would probably want to put it into a bassinet! I suppose he thought your mind would be likely to run on bassinets. But the Infant always reminds me of the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur; so I intend to have a case of polished rosewood made for it, lined with white velvet." Helen laughed, wildly. "I have not the smallest desire, Ronald, to put your 'cello into a bassinet!" she said. It dawned upon Ronnie that Helen was not pleased. "It was a silly joke of Aubrey's. I told him so. I said I should tell you _he_ said it, not I. Let's talk of something else." He turned his eyes resolutely from the 'cello, and told her of his manuscript, of the wonderful experiences of his travels, his complete success in finding the long grass thirteen feet high, and the weird, wild setting his plot needed. Suddenly he became conscious that Helen was not listening. She sat gazing into the fire; her expression cold and unresponsive. Ronnie's heart stood still. Never before had he seen that look on Helen's face. Were his nightmares following him home? For the first time in his life he had a sense of inadequacy. Helen was not pleased with him. He was not being what she wanted. He fell miserably silent. Helen continued to gaze into the fire. The Infant of Prague calmly reflected the golden lamplight in the wonderful depths of its polished surface.