“Oh, but you must show us!” interrupted Billy.  “Get down on the floor please, uncle.”

“I can tell it better!” protested Selwyn; “I can show you just the—­”

“Please lie down and show us how they wriggle?” begged Drina.

“I don’t want to get down on the floor,” he said feebly; “is it necessary?”

But they had already discovered that he could be bullied, and they had it their own way; and presently Selwyn lay prone upon the nursery floor, impersonating a ladrone while pleasant shivers chased themselves over Drina, whom he was stalking.

And it was while all were passionately intent upon the pleasing and snake-like progress of their uncle that a young girl in furs, ascending the stairs two at a time, peeped perfunctorily into the nursery as she passed the hallway—­and halted amazed.

Selwyn, sitting up rumpled and cross-legged on the floor, after having boloed Drina to everybody’s exquisite satisfaction, looked around at the sudden rustle of skirts to catch a glimpse of a vanishing figure—­a glimmer of ruddy hair and the white curve of a youthful face, half-buried in a muff.

Mortified, he got to his feet, glanced out into the hallway, and began adjusting his attire.

“No, you don’t!” he said mildly, “I decline to perform again.  If you want any more wriggling you must accomplish it yourselves.  Drina, has your governess—­by any unfortunate chance—­er—­red hair?”

“No,” said the child; “and won’t you please crawl across the floor and bolo me—­just once more?”

“Bolo me!” insisted Billy.  “I haven’t been mangled yet!”

“Let Billy assassinate somebody himself.  And, by the way, Drina, are there any maids or nurses or servants in this remarkable house who occasionally wear copper-tinted hair and black fox furs?”

“No.  Eileen does.  Won’t you please wriggle—­”

“Who is Eileen?”

“Eileen?  Why—­don’t you know who Eileen is?”

“No, I don’t,” began Captain Selwyn, when a delighted shout from the children swung him toward the door again.  His sister, Mrs. Gerard, stood there in carriage gown and sables, radiant with surprise.

“Phil! You! Exactly like you, Philip, to come strolling in from the antipodes—­dear fellow!” recovering from the fraternal embrace and holding both lapels of his coat in her gloved hands.  “Six years!” she said again and again, tenderly reproachful; “Alexandrine was a baby of six—­Drina, child, do you remember my brother—­do you remember your Uncle Philip?  She doesn’t remember; you can’t expect her to recollect; she is only twelve, Phil—­”

“I remember one thing,” observed Drina serenely.

Brother and sister turned toward her in pride and delight; and the child went on:  “My Aunt Alixe; I remember her.  She was so pretty,” concluded Drina, nodding thoughtfully in the effort to remember more; “Uncle Philip, where is she now?”