“Dad’s away,” said Dot.  “He was sent for early this morning.”

“Is he though?  That means a holiday.  What shall we do?”

“I don’t know what you will do,” said Dot.  “I am going to bake cakes.”

“I’ll come and bake cakes too,” said Bertie promptly.  “I’m rather a swell at that.  I can make fudge too, real American fudge, the most aristocratic thing on the market.  It’s a secret, of course, but I’ll let you into it, if you’ll promise not to tell.”

“How do you know I can keep a secret?” laughed Dot, leading the way to the kitchen.

“You would keep a promise,” he said with conviction.

“If I made one,” she threw back.

“I would trust you without,” he declared.

“Very rash of you!  I wonder if you are as trustworthy as that.”

“My word is my bond—­always,” said Bertie.

She turned and looked at him critically.  “Yes, I think it is,” she admitted.  “You are quite the honestest boy I ever met.  They ought to have called you George Washington.”

“You may if you like,” said Bertie.

She laughed—­her own inexpressibly gay laugh.  “All right, George!  It suits you perfectly.  I always did think Bertie was a silly name.  Why didn’t you go to the Hunt Ball last night?”

Bertie’s merry face sobered.  “My brother wasn’t so well yesterday.  I was reading to him half the night.  He couldn’t sleep, and Tawny Hudson is no good for that sort of thing.”

The merriment went out of Dot’s face too.  It grew softer, older, more womanly.  “You are very good to your brother,” she said.

He frowned abruptly.  “Good to him!  Great Scot!  Why, he’s miles too good for any of us.  Don’t ever class him with Nap or me!  We’re just ordinary sinners.  But he—­he’s a king.”

A queer little gleam that was not all mirth made Dot’s eyes grow brighter.  “I like you for saying that,” she said.

“Why, of course I say it!” he protested.  “It’s true!  He’s the finest chap in the world, all true gold and not a grain of dross.  That’s how it is we all knock under to him.  Even Nap does that, though he doesn’t care a tinker’s curse for anyone else on this muddy little planet.”

“You are awfully fond of him, aren’t you?” said Dot sympathetically.

“Fond of Lucas!  I’d die for him!” the boy declared with feeling.  “He’s father and brother and friend to me.  There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him.  Did you ever hear how he came to be a cripple?”

“Never,” said Dot.

“He was knocked down by an electric car,” Bertie said, rushing through the story with headlong ardour, “trying to save his best girl’s dog from being run over.  He did save it, but he was frightfully hurt—­paralysed for months.  It’s years ago now.  I was only a little shaver at the time.  But I shall never forget it.  He always was good to me, and I thought he was done for.”

“And the girl?” asked Dot rather breathlessly.