“Oh, Ferguson calls me Obadiah!” said Gerald, laughing again.  “He’s the other of me, you know.  Beg pardon! you don’t know, perhaps.  We are twins, Ferguson and I.”

“And Ferguson, my dear Mrs. Grahame,” interposed Mrs. Merryweather, “is my son Philip.  Why these boys cannot call each other by their rightful names is a family mystery; but so it is.”

“Is your brother Fer—­Philip like you?” asked Hildegarde, feeling sure that he was not, as the other boy she had seen certainly had not red hair.

“Not a bit!” replied Gerald, cheerfully.  “No resemblance, I believe.  ‘Beauty and the Beast’ we call each other, too.  Sometimes I am Beauty, and more times I am the Beast; depends on which has had his hair cut last.”

“Or brushed,” said Bell, glancing at the curly hair, which was certainly in rather a wild condition.

“Oh, yes! beg pardon!” said Gerald, glancing ruefully at the mirror, and running his hand through his curly mop.

“Beast this time, and no mistake.  Grass rather long, you see, and tore my locks of gold.  Happy thought!  Desiring to tear your hair in sorrow, walk on hands through long grass; effect admirable.  Wonder Hamlet never tried it!”

“Hamlet’s hair was black,” said Toots, seriously.

“And therefore he could not walk on his hands,” said Gerald.  “I see!  Dropsy, you are a genius; that’s the trouble with you.”

A long gray leg appeared at the open window, and after waving wildly for a moment, disappeared suddenly.

“Ferguson!” said Gerald, turning to Hildegarde.  “His mountain way!  Becoming aware of your presence, he has retired, to reverse legs, and will shortly reappear, fondly hoping that you did not see him before.”

Sure enough, in a few moments another tall boy entered, looking preternaturally grave, with his hair scrupulously smooth.

“Been upstairs, you see,” said the irrepressible Gerald, “and slicked himself all up.  Quite the Beauty, Fergs.”

“Gerald, do be quiet!” said Mrs. Merryweather.  “This is Philip, my other twin boy, Mrs. Grahame.”

Philip greeted Hildegarde and her mother with grave courtesy, taking no notice of his brother’s gibes.

“You find us in a good deal of confusion,” he said to Hildegarde, sitting down on a table, the only available seat.  “It takes a long time to get settled, don’t you think so?”

“Oh—­yes!” said Hildegarde, struggling for composure, and conscious of Gerald’s eyes fixed intently on her.  “But you all look so home-like and comfortable here.”

“Especially Ferguson!” broke in Gerald, sotto voce.  “How comfortable he looks, doesn’t he, Miss Grahame?  No use, Fergs!  We marked your little footprints in the air, my son.”

“Oh!” said Philip, looking much discomposed.  “Well, I’ll punch your head, Obe, anyhow.”

“Suppose we come out and look at the tennis-court,” said Bell.  “I am sure you play tennis, Miss Grahame.”