There went by what we now know to have been noon, and another hour, and more hours, and all afternoon, and all early twilight, and still her Prehistoric Husband did not come home to dinner. Vertebrata was crying with hunger, and the flesh and the vegetables were ice-cold, and the Prehistoric Wife and Mother sat looking straight before her without smiling. And then, just as the moon was rising red over the soft breast of the distant wood, the Prehistoric Father appeared, not looking as if he had done anything. “Is dinner ready?” he asked pleasantly. Now this was the last straw, and the Prehistoric Wife and Mother said so, standing at the door of the cave, with Vertebrata crying in the offing. “Troglodyte,” she said sadly (that was what she called him), “dinner has been ready and ready and ready and ready and ready and ready and ready ...” and she showed him the ice-cold roasted flesh and vegetables. “I’m _so_ sorry, dearest. I never knew,” said the Troglodyte, contritely, and did everything in the world that he could do to show her how sorry he was. He made haste to open his game-bag, and he drew out what food he had killed, and showed her a soft, cock-of-the-rock skin for a cap for her and a white ptarmigan breast to trim it with, and at last she said--because nobody can stay offended when the offender is sorry:-- “Well, dear, say no more about it. We’ll slice up the meat and it will do very well cold, and I’ll warm up the potatoes with some brown butter (or the like). But hurry and bathe or I’ll be ready first _again_.” So he hurried and bathed in the brook, and the cave smelled savoury of the hot brown butter, and Vertebrata had a Grogan tail stuck in her hair, and presently they sat down to supper. And it was nearly eight o’clock, but they didn’t know anything about _that_. When the serious part of supper was done, and the dessert that was a surprise had been brought and had surprised and gone, Vertebrata’s mother sat up very straight and looked before her without smiling. And she said:-- “Now, something must be done.” “About what, Leaf Butterfly?” her husband asked. “Vertebrata doesn’t practise enough and you don’t come home to dinner enough,” she answered, “and something must be done.” “I did practise--wunst,” said Vertebrata. “But you should practise once and once and once and once and once and once, and so on, and not have to be told each once,” said her mother. “I did come home to dinner,” said the Prehistoric Husband, waving his hand at his empty platter. “But you should come first and first and first and first and first, and so on, and not let the dinner get ice-cold,” said his wife. “Hear a thing,” said she. She sprinkled some salt all thick on the table and took the stick on which the flesh had been roasted, and in the salt she drew a circle.