ssion before and behind, and escorted them
round, explaining all mysteries, and insisting upon due admiration.
Everything had to be interviewed, from teaspoons to pots of fern. This
concluded, the guests were politely dismissed, and departed, let us
hope, properly penetrated with a sense of the kindness of the babies.

There have always been some who object to visitors. One of these showed
her objection, not by crying and running away, as undignified babies do,
but by sitting exactly where she was when she first caught sight of the
intruder, and staring straight into space with a very stony stare. A
sensitive visitor could hardly have had the temerity to pass her, but
normal visitors are not sensitive. Sometimes they attempted to make
friends. This was too much. One fat arm would be slowly raised till it
covered the baby's eyes, and in this position she would sit like a small
petrifaction, till the horror had withdrawn.

[Illustration: PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE.

Tara on the left: the Coney on the right.]

This baby, Preetha by name, has in most matters a way of her own. One of
her little peculiarities is a strong preference for solo music as
compared with concert. She listens attentively to others' performances,
then disappears. If followed, she will be found alone in a corner, with
her face to the wall and her back to the world; and if she thinks
herself unobserved, you will be regaled with a solo. This experience is
interesting to the musical. It is never twice alike. Sometimes it is a
succession of sounds, like a tune that has lost its way; sometimes, a
recognisable version of the chorus lately learned. At other times she
delivers her soul in a series of short groans and grunts, beating time
with her podgy hands. If she perceives through the back of her head that
someone is looking or listening, she stops at once; and no persuasions
can ever produce that special rehearsal again. Of late this baby, being
now nearly three, has awakened to a sense of life's responsibilities,
and she evidently wishes to prepare to meet them suitably. Yesterday
evening she came to me with an exceedingly serious face, pointed in the
direction of the kindergarten room, and then tapping herself, remarked:
"Amma! I kindergarten." No more was said; but we know we shall soon see
her solemnly waddling into the schoolroom, and we wonder what will
happen. Will she continue to insist upon a corner to herself?

CHAPTER XXIII

The Bear Gard