When he had tied his scarf and bitten his cigarette to pieces, he paced the room once or twice, squared his shoulders, breathed deeply, and, unbending his eyebrows, walked off to the nursery.

“Hello, you kids!” he said, with an effort.  “I’ve come to luncheon.  Very nice of you to want me, Drina.”

“I wanted you, too!” said Billy; “I’m to sit beside you—­”

“So am I,” observed Drina, pushing Winthrop out of the chair and sliding in close to Selwyn.  She had the cat, Kit-Ki, in her arms.  Kit-Ki, divining nourishment, was purring loudly.

Josephine and Clemence, in pinafores and stickout skirts, sat wriggling, with Winthrop between them; the five dogs sat in a row behind; Katie and Bridget assumed the functions of Hibernian Hebes; and luncheon began with a clatter of spoons.

It being also the children’s dinner—­supper and bed occurring from five to six—­meat figured on the card, and Kit-Ki’s purring increased to an ecstatic and wheezy squeal, and her rigid tail, as she stood up on Drina’s lap, was constantly brushing Selwyn’s features.

“The cat is shedding, too,” he remarked, as he dodged her caudal appendage for the twentieth time; “it will go in with the next spoonful, Drina, if you’re not careful about opening your mouth.”

“I love Kit-Ki,” said Drina placidly.  “I have written a poem to her—­where is it?—­hand it to me, Bridget.”

And, laying down her fork and crossing her bare legs under the table, Drina took breath and read rapidly: 

     “LINES TO MY CAT

     “Why
     Do I love Kit-Ki
     And run after
     Her with laughter
     And rub her fur
     So she will purr? 
     Why do I know
     That Kit-Ki loves me so? 
     I know it if
     Her tail stands up stiff
     And she beguiles
     Me with smiles—­”

“Huh!” said Billy, “cats don’t smile!”

“They do.  When they look pleasant they smile,” said Drina, and continued reading from her own works: 

“Be kind in all
You say and do
For God made Kit-Ki
The same as you. 
“Yours truly,
“ALEXANDRINA GERARD.

She looked doubtfully at Selwyn.  “Is it all right to sign a poem?  I believe that poets sign their works, don’t they, Uncle Philip?”

“Certainly.  Drina, I’ll give you a dollar for that poem.”

“You may have it, anyway,” said Drina, generously; and, as an after-thought:  “My birthday is next Wednesday.”

“What a hint!” jeered Billy, casting a morsel at the dogs.

“It isn’t a hint.  It had nothing to do with my poem, and I’ll write you several more, Uncle Philip,” protested the child, cuddling against him, spoon in hand, and inadvertently decorating his sleeve with cranberry sauce.

Cat hairs and cranberry are a great deal for a man to endure, but he gave Drina a reassuring hug and a whisper, and leaned back to remove traces of the affectionate encounter just as Miss Erroll entered.