From a dimple-kneed, despotic, strenuous youngster, ruling the nursery with a small hand of iron, in half a year Drina had grown into a rather slim, long-legged, coolly active child; and though her hair had not been put up, her skirts had been lowered, and shoes and stockings substituted for half-hose and sandals.

Weighted with this new dignity she had put away dolls, officially.  Unofficially she still dressed, caressed, forgave, or spanked Rosalinda and Beatrice—­but she excluded the younger children from the nursery when she did it.

However, the inborn necessity for mimicry and romance remained; and she satisfied it by writing stories—­marvellous ones—­which she read to Boots.  Otherwise she was the same active, sociable, wholesome, intelligent child, charmingly casual and inconsistent; and the list of her youthful admirers at dancing-school and parties required the alphabetical classification of Mr. Lansing.

But Boots was her own particular possession; he was her chattel, her thing; and he and other people knew that it was no light affair to meddle with the personal property of Drina Gerard.

Her curly head resting against his arm, she was now planning his future movements for the day: 

“You may do what you please while I’m having French,” she said graciously; “after that we will go fishing in Brier Water; then I’ll come home to practice, while you sit on the veranda and listen; then I’ll take you on at tennis, and by that time the horses will be brought around and we’ll ride to the Falcon.  You won’t forget any of this, will you?  Come on; Eileen and Gerald have finished and there’s Dawson to announce luncheon!” And to Gerald, as she climbed down to the ground:  “Oh, what a muff! to let Eileen beat you six—­five, six—­three! . . .  Where’s my hat? . . .  Oh, the dogs have got it and are tearing it to rags!”

And she dashed in among the dogs, slapping right and left, while a facetious dachshund seized the tattered bit of lace and muslin and fled at top speed.

“That is pleasant,” observed Nina; “it’s her best hat, too—­worn to-day in your honour, Boots. . . .  Children!  Hands and faces!  There is Bridget waiting!  Come, Phil; there’s no law against talking at table, and there’s no use trying to run an establishment if you make a mockery of the kitchen.”

Eileen, one bare arm around her brother’s shoulders, strolled houseward across the lawn, switching the shaven sod with her tennis-bat.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” she said to Selwyn.  “Gerald”—­she touched her brother’s smooth cheek—­“means to fish; Boots and Drina are keen on it, too; and Nina is driving to Wyossett with the children.”

“And you?” he asked, smiling.

“Whatever you wish”—­confident that he wanted her, whatever he had on hand.

“I ought to walk over to Storm Head,” he said, “and get things straightened out.”

“Your laboratory?” asked Gerald.  “Austin told me when I saw him in town that you were going to have the cottage on Storm Head to make powder in.”