As he stood, undecided, Geraldine suddenly jerked his hand from the bronze knob and Scott flung open the door.

“Come on!  Quick!” he cried; and the next moment four small pairs of feet were flying through the hall, echoing lightly across the terrace, then skimming the lawn to the sheltering shrubbery beyond.

“The thing to do,” panted Scott, “is to keep out of sight.”  He seized his guests by the arms and drew them behind the rhododendrons.  “Now,” he said, “what’s your name?  You, I mean!”

“Duane Mallett,” replied the boy, breathless.  “That’s my sister, Naida.  Let’s wait a moment before we begin to fight; Naida and I had to run like fury to get away from our nurse.”

Naida was examining Geraldine with an interest almost respectful.

“I wish they’d let me dress like a boy,” she said.  “It’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  They don’t let me do it; I just did it,” replied Geraldine.  “I’ll get you a suit of Scott’s clothes, if you like.  I can get the boxing-gloves at the same time.  Shall I, Scott?”

“Go ahead,” said Scott; “we can pretend there are four boys here.”  And, to Duane, as Geraldine sped cautiously away on her errand:  “That’s a thing I never did before.”

“What thing?”

“Play with three boys all by myself.  Kathleen—­who is Mrs. Severn, our guardian—­is always with us when we are permitted to speak to other boys and girls.”

“That’s babyish,” remarked Duane in frank disgust.  “You are a mollycoddle.”

The deep red of mortification spread over Scott’s face; he looked shyly at Naida, doubly distressed that a girl should hear the degrading term applied to him.  The small girl returned his gaze without a particle of expression in her face.

“Mollycoddles,” continued Duane cruelly, “do the sort of things you do.  You’re one.”

“I—­don’t want to be one,” stammered Scott.  “How can I help it?”

Duane ignored the appeal.  “Playing with three boys isn’t anything,” he said.  “I play with forty every day.”

“W-where?” asked Scott, overwhelmed.

“In school, of course—­at recess—­and before nine, and after one.  We have fine times.  School’s all right.  Don’t you even go to school?”

Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak.  Naida, with a flirt of her kilted skirts, had abruptly turned her back on him; yet he was miserably certain she was listening to her brother’s merciless catechism.

“I suppose you don’t even know how to play hockey,” commented Duane contemptuously.

There was no answer.

“What do you do?  Play with dolls?  Oh, what a molly!”

Scott raised his head; he had grown quite white.  Naida, turning, saw the look on the boy’s face.

“Duane doesn’t mean that,” she said; “he’s only teasing.”

Geraldine came hurrying back with the boxing-gloves and a suit of Scott’s very best clothes, halting when she perceived the situation, for Scott had walked up to Duane, and the boys stood glaring at one another, hands doubling up into fists.