They dropped all talk of the war after this; and before long Philip’s sons dashed in. Jack, the younger boy, who was two-and-a-half, ran at once shyly to his father; but the older, who was five, gave his hand to Stacey with a pretty confiding cordiality.
“How do you do, Uncle Stacey?” he said, with childish formality, recently enough learned to demand care and effort.
“Hello, Carter,” returned Stacey, who liked the boy and liked being called uncle.
The child leaned against his knee. “Uncle Stacey,” he exclaimed, his soft eager face glowing, “will you do ‘Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill!’ for me? I think I can find them this time. I think I know where they went.”
Philip Blair laughed. “Having achieved formality,” he said, “he puts it behind him at once. ‘Something accomplished, something done, has earned a night’s repose.’ ”
“Quite right, too,” Stacey replied. “I promise I will after just a little while, Carter. Where’s your mother?”
“Here,” said Catherine, coming through the doorway. “It was windy out. I had to fix my hair.”
She shook hands with Stacey, a little shyly and formally, almost like her son.
“Let’s go into the sitting-room,” she said, in the abrupt way she had of speaking. “There’s a pleasant fire in there.”
But when they had sat down in front of it they all became silent—all, that is, save Jack, who, on the floor with his toys, babbled to himself ceaselessly of a thousand important things. Even Carter was silent. He sat on a foot-stool and gazed at Stacey from a little distance with patient expectancy.