We Are Pestered by Polydores_

Our life now became one long round of Polydores. They were with us
burr-tight, and attached themselves to me with dog-like devotion,
remaining utterly impervious to Silvia's aloofness and repulses. At
last, however, she succumbed to their presence as one of the things
inevitable.

"The Polydores are here to stay," she acknowledged in a
calmness-of-despair voice.

"They don't seem to be homebodies," I allowed.

The children were not literary like the other productions of their
profound parents, but were a band of robust, active youngsters
unburdened with brains, excepting Ptolemy of soup plate fame. Not that
he betrayed any tendencies toward a learned line, but he was possessed
of an occult, uncanny, wizard-like wisdom that was disconcerting. His
contemplative eyes seemed to search my soul and read my inmost
thoughts.

Pythagoras, Emerald, and Demetrius, aged respectively nine, eight, and
seven, were very much alike in looks and size, being so many pinched
caricatures of their mother. To Silvia they were bewildering
whirlwinds, but Huldah, who seemed to have difficulty in telling them
apart, always classified them as "Them three", and Silvia and I fell
into the habit of referring to them in the same way. Huldah could not
master the Polydore given names either by memory or pronunciation.
Ptolemy, whose name was shortened to "Tolly" by Diogenes, she called
"Polly." When she was on speaking terms with "Them three" she
nicknamed them "Thaggy, Emmy, and Meetie."

Diogenes, the two-year old, was a Tartar when emulating his brothers.
Alone, he was sometimes normal and a shade more like ordinary
children.

When they first began swarming in upon us, Silvia drew many lines
which, however, the Polydores promptly effaced.

"They shall not eat here, anyway," she emphatically declared.

This was her last stand and she went down ingloriously.

One day while we were seated at the table enjoying some of Huldah's
most palatable dishes, Ptolemy came in. There ensued on our part a
silence which the lad made no effort to break. Silvia and I each
slipped him a side glance. He stood statuesque, watching us with the
mute wistfulness of a hungry animal. There were unwonted small red
specks high upon his cheekbones, symptoms, Silvia thought, of
starvation.

She was moved to ask, though reluctantly and perfunctorily:

"Haven't you been to dinner, Ptolemy?"

"Yes," he admitted quickly, "but I coul