Edgar faced her. "Where do I come in?" he asked. "I expect the summer-house to save your lives from me. I don't believe we can have two artists in the family."
Kathleen caught the last words as she came downstairs. "Don't worry," she said lightly. "Phil will have none of us. He wants either a ten-acre lot or a stable."
"Well, where is he?" asked Edgar, with some irritation. "I'm as hungry as a hunter."
"And we have Aunt Mary's pretty things. Eliza gave them to mother."
"You don't say so! Well, the Angel of Peace has moulted a feather on this island. There, I see Phil now, loping across the field. Do order dinner to be served, mother."
The music-box was playing when the guest entered.
"Oh, am I late?" he cried contritely, and took the stairs in three bounds.
"How burned he is already!" laughed Mrs. Fabian. "You will be looking like that in a few days, Edgar."
The latter was standing, high-chested and with repressed impatience, in an attitude his mother knew. He had not at all liked the radiance of Phil's countenance as the latter burst into the room.
"This dinner is especially ordered for you, dear," said Mrs. Fabian soothingly, "from the clam soup to the strawberry shortcake."