oquent over the special qualities of guinea-pigs. Christopher's
original two had already increased alarmingly in numbers. He hinted
some might even be left at Marden--in a good home. Also he told her he
had christened the family by the names of great painters.

"Caesar taught me the names," he explained, "there is Velasquez--he
painted the Don Carlos in Caesar's room, you know--he's brown all over
except for one spot--_my_ Velasquez, I mean--and there's Watteau--an
awful frisky little beast--and Sir Joshua, who sleeps in my pocket.
You'll like Sir Joshua, he's awfully good tempered."

"I know," nodded Patricia wisely, "and he painted Nevil's great
grandmother. It's in the drawing-room. Why do you call Aymer
'Caesar'?"

"Because he always does what he means to do, or gets it done; besides
he is--just Caesar."

"It isn't bad," she said condescendingly, "perhaps I shall call him so
myself. I do hope we are going to have tea in his room. It's such a
lovely, lovely room."

"So it is in London. The beautifulest room I've seen."

"It's just as nice here," she maintained stoutly, "he planned how it
was to be done, and Nevil saw to it. I like this best."

Christopher was too polite or too shy to insist, but he felt doubtful
and became impatient to see for himself, so they went indoors to find
Patricia's hopes were justified. Tea was served in "Mr. Aymer's"
room.

And Christopher was obliged to allow that Patricia had some ground for
her statement. It was a smaller room than the one in London, and
singularly like it, only the prevailing note was lighter and gayer in
tone. Aymer was there, lying on a similar sofa to his usual one, with
the familiar cover across his feet.

Renata was making tea, and making Caesar laugh also. Christopher was
uncomfortably conscious it was all new to him and the familiarity only
superficial, while it was a well-recognised phase in Caesar's life.
Even Nevil Aston seemed a different person in his easy country dress,
and Christopher failed at first to connect the dark little lady at the
tea table with him, and only noted she took Aymer his tea, which was
his, Christopher's, special privilege, and treated him with a friendly
familiarity that nearly bordered on contempt in Christopher's eyes.

Aymer saw the children and called to them. Patricia greeted him with
the air of a young princess and drew herself up when he said she had
grown, and would soon be a child instead of a baby. Then he faced