"Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room."
"Of course. I remember."
Mr. Don sets his teeth. "Does that table suggest anything to you, d.i.c.k?"
"To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. What is it doing here?"
"Your mother brought it in."
"To play games on? Mother!"
"I don"t--know that it was a game, d.i.c.k."
"But to play anything! I"m precious glad she can do that. Was Laura playing with her?"
"She was helping her."
"Good for Laura." He is looking at some slips of paper on the table.
"Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is writing on them: "The first letter is H--the second letter is A--the third letter is R."
What does it mean?"
"Does it convey no meaning to you, d.i.c.k?"
"To me? No; why should it?"
Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. "Let us go back to the fire, my boy."
d.i.c.k follows him into the ingle-nook. "But, why should it convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor games." Brightly, "I bet you Ockley would be good at it." After a joyous ramble, "Ockley"s nickname still sticks to him!"
"I don"t think I know it."
"He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his head."
They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful antic.i.p.ation. Probably d.i.c.k is leaning forward in the same way, and this old father is merely copying him.
"What did you nickname him, d.i.c.k?"
"It was his f.a.gs that did it!"
"I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, d.i.c.k."
"He is pretty touchy about it now, you know."
"I won"t tell any one. Come on, d.i.c.k."
"His f.a.gs called him K.C.M.G."
"Meaning, meaning, d.i.c.k?"
"Meaning "Kindly Call Me G.o.d!""
Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what d.i.c.k is doing. They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the door.
"I think I heard some one, d.i.c.k!"
"Perhaps it"s mother!"
"She may," nervously, "have heard the row."
d.i.c.k"s eyes must be twinkling. "I say, father, you"ll catch it!"
"I can"t believe, d.i.c.k," gazing wistfully into the chair, "that she won"t see you."
It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, "Only one may see me."
"You will speak to her, d.i.c.k. Let her hear your voice."
"Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your losing me."
"I can"t give you up, d.i.c.k."
Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved.
"I called to you, Robert."
"Yes, I thought--I was just going to----"
He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to d.i.c.k, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr.
Don. He says her name, meaning, "See, Grace, who is with us."
Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms outstretched to her. "What is it, Robert? What is the matter?"
She does not hear a voice say, "Mother!"
"I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?"
The father cannot speak.
"Now you"re in a hole, father!" says a mischievous, voice.
"Can I not be told, Robert?"
"Something in the paper," the voice whispers.
Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. "Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don"t want to hear it."
"Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?"
"No, that would only have made me shut my door. If d.i.c.k thought you could laugh!" She goes to the little table. "I came back for these slips of paper." She lifts them and presses them to her breast. "These precious slips of paper!"