“It’s the horrible truth,” asserted the spinster, calmly going on with her tea—“most of them go to little black whelps in the Antipodes. After all, it isn’t any more incongruous than the music—is it?” “But you don’t do it for the under-done young parson, surely?” “Goodness gracious, no. What an idea! He wiped his hands of me long ago. The wildest stretch of imagination, you see, could not picture me ever looking like an angel; so he left me to my fate!” And again the humorous twisted smile delighted her small audience. “Have you seen Splodgkins lately?” Basil asked. “You say all babies are sticky and objectionable; but you must admit that sticky imp down below is better than two-thirds of the other babies in the world shining with soap polish.” “So he is”; and the grim face relaxed still further. “He was sitting in my way on the stairs this morning, and as I could not get by, I said, ‘Make room, please, Master Splodgkins; you don’t own the universe.’ ‘Eth oi doth,’ he lisped. ‘Noime ain’t thplodums. Damn th’ ooniverth.’” It was good to hear Basil’s whole-hearted laughter. “We ought to have had him to tea,” he said regretfully. “He would have delighted Hal. He’s two-and-a-half years old”—turning to her—“this remarkable person-age; and, like most gutter snipes, has developed as an ordinary child of four. He and G have debates occasionally. He wishes to be called D, because that is the letter on his front door, and ‘Splodgkins’ hurts his dignity but he’s so funny when he is indignant we can’t resist teasing him.” A little wistful smile crept into the invalid’s eyes. “We have lots of fun in this dingy old barrack between us,” he told Hal. “We are rarely silly enough to be dull, with so many queer, interesting folks under the same roof.” Hal felt something like a sudden lump in her throat, but she smiled brightly as she looked from one to the other, feeling somehow the better for knowing such waifs of life and circumstance, who could yet baffle Fate’s pitilessness with genuine laughter. “Dick is writing a most weird and incomprehensible book on vegetables and babies. I’m quite certain you could give him lots of ideas,” she remarked to G. “He’d better put Splodgkins in if he wants to make it sell,” said she. “Only they mightn’t allow it at the libraries. Splodgkins’s vocabulary is fortunately sometimes indistinguishable for his lisp.” “Splodgkins couldn’t be translated,” put in Basil. “He sometimes comes to tea with me and G; but he is almost too exhausting. I think he knows every bad word in the English language; but one has to forgive him because he always saves half his cake for his baby sister, and hurls violent abuse at any one who dares to disparage her. “Are you going?...” as G got up. “I’m sure Miss Pritchard doesn’t want you to leave us.” “Miss Pritchard!...” In a horrified voice.