itting in a semi-circle on the
floor. From their attitude it is clear they have mistaken the whole
thing for one of the slower forms of entertainment, some comic lecture or
conjuring exhibition, and are waiting patiently for you to get out of bed
and do something. It shocks him, the idea of their being in the guest's
bedchamber. He peremptorily orders them out. They do not answer him,
they do not argue; in dead silence, and with one accord they fall upon
him. All you can see from the bed is a confused tangle of waving arms
and legs, suggestive of an intoxicated octopus trying to find bottom. Not
a word is spoken; that seems to be the etiquette of the thing. If you
are sleeping in your pyjamas, you spring from the bed, and only add to
the confusion; if you are wearing a less showy garment, you stop where
you are and shout commands, which are utterly unheeded. The simplest
plan is to leave it to the eldest boy. He does get them out after a
while, and closes the door upon them. It re-opens immediately, and one,
generally Muriel, is shot back into the room. She enters as from a
catapult. She is handicapped by having long hair, which can be used as a
convenient handle. Evidently aware of this natural disadvantage, she
clutches it herself tightly in one hand, and punches with the other. He
opens the door again, and cleverly uses her as a battering-ram against
the wall of those without. You can hear the dull crash as her head
enters among them, and scatters them. When the victory is complete, he
comes back and resumes his seat on the bed. There is no bitterness about
him; he has forgotten the whole incident.

"I like the morning," he says, "don't you?"

"Some mornings," you agree, "are all right; others are not so peaceful."

He takes no notice of your exception; a far-away look steals over his
somewhat ethereal face.

"I should like to die in the morning," he says; "everything is so
beautiful then."

"Well," you answer, "perhaps you will, if your father ever invites an
irritable man to come and sleep here, and doesn't warn him beforehand."

He descends from his contemplative mood, and becomes himself again.

"It's jolly in the garden," he suggests; "you wouldn't like to get up and
have a game of cricket, would you?"

It was not the idea with which you went to bed, but now, as things have
turned out, it seems as good a plan as lying there hopelessly awake; and
you agree.

You learn, later in the day,