"Why do you always call her 'Miss Erroll'?" asked Billy. "Why don't you say 'Eileen'?" Selwyn laughed. "I don't know, Billy; ask her; perhaps she knows." Eileen laughed, too, delicately embarrassed and aware of his teasing smile. But Drina, always impressed by formality, said: "Uncle Philip isn't Eileen's uncle. People who are not relations say _Miss and Mrs_." "Are faver and muvver relations?" asked Josephine timidly. "Y-es--no!--I don't know," admitted Drina; "_are_ they, Eileen?" "Why, yes--that is--that is to say--" And turning to Selwyn: "What dreadful questions. _Are_ they relations, Captain Selwyn? Of course they are!" "They were not before they were married," he said, laughing. "If you married Eileen," began Billy, "you'd call her Eileen, I suppose." "Certainly," said Selwyn. "Why don't you?" "That is another thing you must ask her, my son." "Well, then, Eileen--" But Miss Erroll was already seated at the nursery piano, and his demands were drowned in a decisive chord which brought the children clustering around her, while their nurses ran among them untying bibs and scrubbing faces and fingers in fresh water. They sang like seraphs, grouped around the piano, fingers linked behind their backs. First it was "The Vicar of Bray." Then--and the cat fled at the first chord--"Lochleven Castle": "Put off, put off, And row with speed For now is the time and the hour of need." Miss Erroll sang, too; her voice leading--a charmingly trained, but childlike voice, of no pretensions, as fresh and unspoiled as the girl herself. There was an interval after "Castles in the Air"; Eileen sat, with her marvellously white hands resting on the keys, awaiting further suggestion. "Sing that funny song, Uncle Philip!" pleaded Billy; "you know--the one about: "She hit him with a shingle Which made his breeches tingle Because he pinched his little baby brother; And he ran down the lane With his pants full of pain. Oh, a boy's best friend is his mother!" "_Billy!_" gasped Miss Erroll. Selwyn, mortified, said severely: "That is a very dreadful song, Billy--" "But _you_ taught it to me--" Eileen swung around on the piano stool, but Selwyn had seized Billy and was promising to bolo him as soon as he wished. And Eileen, surveying the scene from her perch, thought that Selwyn's years seemed to depend entirely upon his occupation, for he looked very boyish down there on his knees among the children; and she had not yet forgotten the sunken pallor of his features in the Park--no, nor her own question to him, still unanswered. For she had asked him who that woman was who had been so direct in her smiling salute. And he had not yet replied; probably never would; for she did not expect to ask him again. Meanwhile the bolo-men were rushing the outposts to the outposts' intense satisfaction. "Bang-bang!" repeated Winthrop; "I hit you, Uncle Philip. You are dead, you know!"