“How do you do, uncle—uncle——?” she turned to Clementina. “Ephraim,” she prompted. “Uncle Ephraim.” “No wonder the poor innocent doesn’t remember such a name,” said Clementina. He bent and solemnly wagged the soft hand for some time; then, not knowing what to do with it, he let it go. “Do you know Bimbo?” “No,” said Quixtus. “Bimbo—_patte_.” The mongrel lifted his paw. “You must shake hands with him and then you will know him,” she said seriously. Quixtus, with a grave face, bent lower and shook hands with the dog. “And Pinkie.” She lifted the dirty white plush cat. In an embarrassed way he wagged a stumpy fore-foot. Sheila turned to Clementina. “Now he knows everybody.” Clementina kissed her and rose from her seat; Poynter rising also. “You’ll be a good girl if I leave you with Uncle Ephraim for a while?” “My dear Clementina!” cried Quixtus aghast. “What do you mean?” A gleam of kind malice flickered in her eyes. “I find I must have some air, in my turn—and some absinthe which Mr. Poynter has promised to give me. Au revoir! I shan’t be long, Sheila dear.” She moved with Poynter towards the door. “But, Clementina——” “If she bites you’ve only to call that lump of Celestial idiocy over there,” pointing to the fat Chinese nurse who sat smiling in her dark corner. “You’re protected. And, by the way,” she added in a whisper, “She doesn’t know her father’s dead yet. Leave it to me to break the news.” She was gone. Quixtus sank; a perspiring embarrassment, into one of the wicker chairs. A scurvy trick; he thought, of Clementina to leave him in this appalling situation. Yet shame prevented flight. He sat there bending his mild, china-blue eyes on Sheila, who had returned unconcernedly to Bimbo; putting him through his tricks. He gave his paw and sat up on end, and while doing so yawned in a bored fashion. During this latter posture Sheila sat up on her little haunches and held her hands in front of her and yawned in imitation. Then she set Pinkie on end facing the dog. Lastly she looked up at her new uncle. “You do that too. Then we’ll all be doing it.” “God bless my soul,” said the startled man. “I—I can’t.” “Why not?” “I’m too old.” She seemed, for the moment, satisfied with the reason and resumed her game with Bimbo. After the yawn he grinned with doggy fatuity, and his red long tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. Sheila stuck out her little red tongue; in droll mimicry. “Don’t wag your tail, Bimbo. It isn’t fair, because I’ve got no tail. Why haven’t I a tail, Uncle Eph—Eph—Uncle Ephim?” “Because you’re a little girl and not a dog.” At that moment the plush cat, insecurely balanced; toppled over. “God bless my soul,” cried the little parrot, “you’re too old, Pinkie.” “Sheila,” said Quixtus, realising in a frightened way his responsibility. “Come here.”