“Martin doesn’t mind,” she whispered. “He _hates_ presents.” Joyce could feel powerful fingers buttoning the cool gap between her shoulders. When that was done she would be turned round and asked what was the matter. “Perhaps she has a pain,” boomed a masculine vibration. “These parties always upset them. Worst thing for children.” Joyce could smell a whiff of cigar and see large feet in white canvas shoes approaching. Best to face it now before worse happens. She turned desperately, hampered by Bunny’s embrace, almost throttling her in an excess of affection. Breaking away she ran across the room, where Martin and the boys were averting their eyes from the humiliation of the would-be spy. She thrust into his hand a tiny package, damp now. “It was so small,” she said. A moment of appalling silence hung over the trembling pair. Martin could feel it coming, the words “What do you say, Martin?” seemed forming and rolling up over his head like opal banks of summer storm. Yet he could not have said a word. He seized her hand and shook it, with a grotesque bob of his head. “Such a little gentleman, how _do_ you train them? I can’t do anything with Ben, he’s so rough.” Joyce was blotted out by a merciful hooded raincoat. As she struggled through its dark rubber-smelling folds she could hear voices coming down from above. “Alec, say good-bye to your little cousins--no, we must say your _big_ cousins, mustn’t we?” “Thank Mrs. Richmond for such a nice party.” “Thank you, Mrs. Richmond, for such a nice party.” “Martin, you haven’t opened Joyce’s present.” “I don’t want to open it,” murmured Martin sullenly. Then he knew he had said the wrong thing. “Don’t want to open it? Why of course you want to open it. We don’t measure presents by their size, do we, Joyce?” Joyce, almost escaped, was drawn again into the arena. “Come, Alec, we’ll see what Joyce has given Martin and then you must go.” “I can’t untie it, the string’s wet,” muttered Martin. The watching circle drew closer. “Wet? Nonsense. Here, give it to me.” Unfolding of sodden paper. A mouse of soft grey plush, with little glassy eyes and a long silky tail. And two wheels under his stomach, a key to wind him by. “Why, it’s the mouse we saw in the window at the cigar store. Joyce was crazy about it.” “You see, Martin, she’s given you a mouse because she wanted it so much for herself.” “It isn’t very much, my dear, but there’s so little to choose from, here in the country.” “It’s like the mice we had on the nursery wallpaper,” said Bunny, praising valiantly. “Wind it up and see it run.” There are some situations that, once entered, must be carried through to the end. Martin wound. He could tell by the feel of the key that something was wrong. “I’ll play with it later,” he said. “Don’t be so stubborn, Martin. We’re all waiting to see it.”