his favorite low chairs.
'I suppose it's a grave responsibility to bring an ardent, serious young thing like Imogen here among all these fascinating personages,' she remarked reflectively. 'But, after all, one can never tell. These grave, silent girls have their own charm, even for facile people.'
'Oh, so that is your plan?' queried her husband dryly. 'I was wondering why you got her up here. She doesn't seem to mix well with the faciles. At least, so it struck me.'
Flavia paid no heed to this jeering remark, but repeated, 'No, after all, it may not be a bad thing.'
'Then do consign her to that shaken reed, the tenor,' said her husband yawning. 'I remember she used to have a taste for the pathetic.'
'And then,' remarked Flavia coquettishly, 'after all, I owe her mother a return in kind.
She was not afraid to trifle with destiny.'
But Hamilton was asleep in his chair.
Next morning Imogen found only Miss Broadwood in the breakfast room.
'Good morning, my dear girl, whatever are you doing up so early? They never breakfast before eleven. Most of them take their coffee in their room. Take this place by me.'
Miss Broadwood looked particularly fresh and encouraging in her blue serge walking skirt, her open jacket displaying an expanse of stiff, white shirt bosom, dotted with some almost imperceptible figure, and a dark blue- and-white necktie, neatly knotted under her wide, rolling collar. She wore a white rosebud in the lapel of her coat, and decidedly she seemed more than ever like a nice, clean boy on his holiday. Imogen was just hoping that they would breakfast alone when Miss Broadwood exclaimed, 'Ah, there comes Arthur with the children. That's the reward of early rising in this house; you never get to see the youngsters at any other time.'
Hamilton entered, followed by two dark, handsome little boys. The girl, who was very tiny, blonde like her mother, and exceedingly frail, he carried in his arms. The boys came up and said good morning with an ease and cheerfulness uncommon, even in well-bred children, but the little girl hid her face on her father's shoulder.
'She's a shy little lady,' he explained as he put her gently down in her chair. 'I'm afraid she's like her father; she can't seem to get used to meeting people. And you, Miss Willard, did you dream of the White Rabbit or the Little Mermaid?'
'Oh, I dreamed of them all! All the personages of that buried civilization,' cried Imogen, delighted that his estranged manner of the night before had entirely vanished and feeling that, somehow, the old confidential relations had been restored during the night.
'Come, William,' said Miss Broadwood, turning to the younger of the two boys, 'and what did you dream about?'
'We dreamed,' said William gravely--he was the more assertive of the two and always spoke for both--'we dreamed that there were fireworks hidden in the basement of the carriage house; lots and lots of fireworks.'
His elder brother looked up at him with apprehensive astonishment, while Miss Broadwood hastily put her napkin to her lips and Hamilton dropped his eyes. 'If little boys dream things, they are so apt not to come true,' he reflected sadly. This shook even the redoubtable William, and he glanced nervously at his brother. 'But do things vanish just because they have been dreamed?' he objected.
'Generally that is the very best reason for their vanishing,' said Arthur gravely.
'But, Father, people can't help what they dream,' remonstrated Edward gently.
'Oh, come! You're making these children talk like a Maeterlinck dialogue,' laughed Miss Broadwood.
Flavia presently entered, a book in her hand, and bade them all good morning. 'Come, little people, which story shall it be this morning?' she asked winningly. Greatly excited, the children followed her into the garden. 'She does then, sometimes,' murmured Imogen as they left the breakfast room.
'Oh, yes, to be sure,' said Miss Broadwood cheerfully. 'She reads a story to them every morning in the most picturesque part of the garden. The mother of the Gracchi, you know. She does so long, she says, for the time when they will be intellectual companions for her. What do you say to a walk over the hills?'
As they left the house they met Frau Lichtenfeld and the bushy Herr Schotte--the professor cut an astonishing figure in golf stockings--returning from a walk and engaged in an animated conversation on the tendencies of German fiction.
'Aren't they the most attractive little children,' exclaimed Imogen as they wound down the road toward the river.
'Yes, and you must not fail to tell Flavia that you think so. She will look at you in a sort of startled way and say, 'Yes, aren't they?' and maybe she will go off and hunt them up and have tea with them, to fully appreciate them. She is awfully afraid of missing anything good, is Flavia. The way those youngsters manage to conceal their guilty presence in the House of Song is a wonder.'
'But don't any of the artist-folk fancy children?' asked Imogen.
'Yes, they just fancy them and no more. The chemist remarked the other day that children are like certain salts which need not be actualized because the formulae are quite sufficient for practical purposes. I don't see how even Flavia can endure to have that man about.'
'I have always been rather curious to know what Arthur thinks of it all,' remarked Imogen cautiously.
'Thinks of it!' ejaculated Miss Broadwood. 'Why, my dear, what would any man think of having his house turned into an hotel, habited by freaks who discharge his servants, borrow his money, and insult his neighbors? This place is shunned like a lazaretto!'
Well, then, why does he--why does he--' persisted Imogen.
'Bah!' interrupted Miss Broadwood impatiently, 'why did he in the first place? That's the question.'
'Marry her, you mean?' said Imogen coloring.
'Exactly so,' said Miss Broadwood sharply, as she snapped the lid of her matchbox.
