A little pause, while the shifting flame-light makes small pictures of us on the deep-bodied teapot’s sides, and throws shadowy profiles of us on the wall.

“Mother said, too, that I was to try and not say any of my unlucky things!” I remark, presently.

“Do not tell him,” says Bobby, ill-naturedly, “as you told poor Captain Saunders the other day, that ’they always put the fool of the family into the army.’”

“I did not say so of myself,” cry I, angrily.  “I only told it him as a quotation.”

“Abstain from quotations, then,” retorts Bobby, dryly; “for you know in conversation one does not see the inverted commas.”

“What shall I talk about?” say I, dropping my shielding hand into my lap, and letting the full fire-warmth blaze on eyes, nose, and cheeks.  “Barbara, what did you talk about?”

“Whatever I talked about,” replies Barbara, gayly, “they clearly were not successful topics, so I will not reveal what they were.”

Barbara is standing by the tea-table, thin and willowy, a tea-caddy in one hand, and a spoon in the other, ladling tea into the deep-bodied pot—­a spoonful for each person and one for the pot.

“I will draw you up a list of subjects to be avoided,” says Algy, drawing his chair to the table, and pulling a pencil out of his waistcoat-pocket.  “Here, Tou Tou, tear a leaf out of your copy-book—­ imprimis, old age.”

“You are wrong there,” cry I, triumphantly, “quite wrong; he is rather fond of talking of his age, harps upon it a good deal.  He said to-day that he was an old wreck!”

“Of course he meant you to contradict him!” says Bobby, cackling, “and, from the little I know of you, I am morally certain that you did not—­ did you, now?”

“Well, no!” reply I, rather crestfallen; “I certainly did not.  I would, though, in a minute, if I had thought that he wanted it.”

“I wish,” says Barbara, shutting the caddy with a snap, “that Providence had willed to send the dear old fellow into the world twenty years later than it did.  In that case I should not at all have minded trying to be a comfort to him.”

“He must have been very good-looking, must not he?” say I, pensively, staring at the red fire-caverns.  “Very—­before his hair turned gray.  I wonder what color it was?”

Visions of gold yellow, of sunshiny brown, of warm chestnut locks, travel in succession before my mind’s eye, and try in turn to adjust themselves to the good and goodly weather-worn face, and wide blue eyes of my new old friend.

“It is so nice and curly even now,” I go on, “twice as curly as Algy’s.”

“Tongs,” replies Algy, with short contempt, looking up from his list of prohibitions.

“Very good-looking!” repeat I, dogmatically, entirely ignoring the last suggestion.

“Perhaps when this planet was young!” retorts he, with the superb impertinence of twenty.