A young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire, looking at him with round-eyed innocence.  He thought:  ’This is better; I mustn’t disturb them for my hat’; and approaching the fire, said: 

“Jolly cold, isn’t it?”

The girl smiled:  “Yes-jolly.”

He noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot of fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank and open.  “Er” he said, “I’ve left my hat in there.”

“What larks!” And at her little clear laugh something moved within Bob Pillin.

“You know this house well?”

She shook her head.  “But it’s rather scrummy, isn’t it?”

Bob Pillin, who had never yet thought so answered: 

“Quite O.K.”

The girl threw up her head to laugh again.  “O.K.?  What’s that?”

Bob Pillin saw her white round throat, and thought:  ‘She is a ripper!’ And he said with a certain desperation: 

“My name’s Pillin.  Yours is Larne, isn’t it?  Are you a relation here?”

“He’s our Guardy.  Isn’t he a chook?”

That rumbling whisper like “Scratch a Poll, Poll!” recurring to Bob Pillin, he said with reservation: 

“You know him better than I do.”  “Oh!  Aren’t you his grandson, or something?”

Bob Pillin did not cross himself.

“Lord!  No!  My dad’s an old friend of his; that’s all.”

“Is your dad like him?”

“Not much.”

“What a pity!  It would have been lovely if they’d been Tweedles.”

Bob Pillin thought:  ’This bit is something new.  I wonder what her Christian name is.’  And he said: 

“What did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism—–?”

The girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything.

“Phyllis.”

Could he say:  “Is my only joy”?  Better keep it!  But-for what?  He wouldn’t see her again if he didn’t look out!  And he said: 

“I live at the last house in the park-the red one.  D’you know it?  Where do you?”

“Oh! a long way—­23, Millicent Villas.  It’s a poky little house.  I hate it.  We have awful larks, though.”

“Who are we?”

“Mother, and myself, and Jock—­he’s an awful boy.  You can’t conceive what an awful boy he is.  He’s got nearly red hair; I think he’ll be just like Guardy when he gets old.  He’s awful!”

Bob Pillin murmured: 

“I should like to see him.”

“Would you?  I’ll ask mother if you can.  You won’t want to again; he goes off all the time like a squib.”  She threw back her head, and again Bob Pillin felt a little giddy.  He collected himself, and drawled: 

“Are you going in to see your Guardy?”

“No.  Mother’s got something special to say.  We’ve never been here before, you see.  Isn’t he fun, though?”

“Fun!”

“I think he’s the greatest lark; but he’s awfully nice to me.  Jock calls him the last of the Stoic’uns.”