cricket,
tennis, golf--all had their turn. He was amiability itself, but he would
not and could not be made to talk. They were at their wit's end when
Phyllis and Peggy rejoined them, and Phyllis took Mark off to the
garden.

Peggy sat with the men, chatting volubly. John's eyes followed Mark and
Phyllis. When he could do so unobserved, he touched Sir Peter's arm
quietly, and directed his attention to them. Mark was talking at full
speed; Phyllis was listening, and cutting roses into a basket.

"Yes," said Peggy, "we have had some ripping times. The most ripping was
yesterday. We almost robbed England of her greatest living poet, by
nearly running Mr. Kipling down, near Pevensey. It was in a narrow lane
and he was walking with his chin on his chest. We supposed, of course,
he heard us. Mark used the emergency brake; the car slewed around; he
wasn't even grazed. And he took it as coolly as you please. John, if we
had hit him, would you be next in line for laureate?"

"I hope he was thinking out a sequel to 'Kim,'" said Sir Peter. "I
picked that book up in the club library one day when I had a quarter of
an hour to kill. I sat there all the afternoon. I have read it three
times, since."

"I liked 'Stalky' best. How do the pretty little jingles go, John?"
asked Peggy. She took a copy of "The Spectator" from the table, and
turned the leaves, idly.

"Oh, jinglewise," answered John.

"My word! Listen to this," exclaimed Peggy; and then read--"'We should
hesitate to say that Mr. Landless's name will stand higher than the
second rank of poets. But so much praise he has fairly wrested from even
the most captious reviewer. Indeed his "Lyrics" invite one to the
dangerous pastime of prophecy; and prophecy of a bright future for this
newest of our versifiers. Certainly, if the more serious work we are
promised in "London: A Poem" (which is announced for the autumn) exceeds
in dignity and restraint the best of his "Lyrics," we shall throw
caution to the winds and predict great things for him. We observe two
typographical errors on page--' Oh! who cares about the old
typographical errors! Well, well, John. Isn't that splendid! What a
happy girl Phil must be!"

"We are all very happy, Margaret," said Sir Peter. "And very proud to be
related to him--even by marriage."

"And Phil tells me you have turned author, too," said Peggy to Sir
Peter. "A young fellow like you to be writing your 'Recollections'!
Think how much more you