The dinner proved less of an ordeal than he had expected. Indeed, after the first embarrassment of that strange small presence, it really was rather interesting. He was so unused to children that his small nephew's observations seemed rather remarkable. He did not know that the only way a child learns language is to experiment in its use.
Philip was a well-behaved child, with a natural sense of propriety. Having been reared with grown people he had a somewhat startling use of words, but for the same reason he was entirely self-possessed without a trace of pertness. He had been accustomed to meeting older people on equal terms. He was secretly rather ashamed of his childishness of the night before. As he explained to Mammy Cely it had been because he could not help it.
Seated at the table with freshly brushed locks and all traces of tears gone, he looked quite the little gentleman. Mammy Cely had cautioned him not to talk too much. But Philip knew enough to hold up his end of the conversation.
"Well, Philip, how have you and Mammy Cely got along to-day?"
"Pretty well," said Philip, cheerfully.
"What have you been doing to amuse yourself?"
Philip considered. He had done a great many things, for Mammy Cely had taken a day off to amuse and entertain him.
"I can't explain it," he said at length. "I forgot the number." What he meant Richard never knew, and it is quite likely that Philip had no very definite idea himself.
Later he remembered about putting the chickens in the "hovels," which he related with animation. After a pause he asked politely:
"Do you have any turkles around here?"