“Get hold of their secret codes, and find where their forces are hidden,” cried Ben, who liked the military flavour of this thought. “I think it’s a silly game,” said Phyllis. “You can’t really find out anything; and if you did, you’d be punished. Spies always get caught.” “Penalty of death!” shouted the boys, elated. “It’s harder than being a real spy,” said Martin. “You can’t wear the enemy’s uniform and talk their language. But I’m going to do it, anyhow.” “Me too!” Joyce exclaimed from the other end of the table, where she and Bunny had followed the conversation with half-frightened excitement. “I want to be a spy!” added Bunny. “Mustn’t have too many spies,” said Alec. “The enemy would suspect something was up. Send one first, he’ll see what he can find and report to us.” It was not clear to Bunny exactly who the enemy were or how the spying was to be carried out; but if Martin was to do it, it would be well done, she was certain. Spying, that suggested secrecy, and secrecy---- “Martin has a little roll-top desk with a key!” she shouted. “Daddy gave it to him for his birthday.” “Oh, I forgot,” said Phyllis. She ran out into the living room, and returned with a large parcel. “Many happy returns,” she said, laying it in front of Martin. If you listen intently, behind the innocent little phrase you can overhear, like a whispering chorus, the voices of innumerable parents: “And don’t forget, when you give it to him, to say _Many happy returns_.” The others also hurried to get the packages that had been left in the vestibule. There was a great rattling of paper and untying of string; an embarrassed reiteration of thankyous by Martin. He felt it awkward to say the same thing again for each gift. Hearing the movement in the dining room, the grown-ups had now come in. “Such a pretty sight.” “I love children’s parties, their faces are always a picture.” “Martin, did you say thank you to Alec for that lovely croquet set?” “This is what _I_ gave him,” said Ben, pushing forward the parcheesi board. “The girls are so dainty, like little flowers.” “Who is the little dark one, over by the window?” “That’s Joyce.--Why, Joyce dear, what are you crying about?” The strong maternal voice rang through the room with a terrible publicity of compassion. The children stared. Bunny ran and threw her arms round her friend, who had hidden her face in the curtain. Bunny thought she knew what was wrong. Joyce had forgotten to bring a present, and was ashamed because all the others had done so. The miserable little figure tried to efface itself in the curtain; even the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her pink frock had come undone. Things that are close to us, how loyal they are, how they follow the moods of their owners. “There, there, honey, what’s the trouble? After such a lovely party?” This was authoritative pity, threateningly musical. Bunny pressed her warm lips against a wet petal of nostril.