Mother was sitting in the window-seat, and in the leather-covered armchair that Father always used to sit in at the other house sat—
THEIR OWN OLD GENTLEMAN!
“Well, I never did,” said Peter, even before he said, “How do you do?” He was, as he explained afterwards, too surprised even to remember that there was such a thing as politeness—much less to practise it.
“It's our own old gentleman!” said Phyllis.
“Oh, it's you!” said Bobbie. And then they remembered themselves and their manners and said, “How do you do?” very nicely.
“This is Jim's grandfather, Mr. ——” said Mother, naming the old gentleman's name.
“How splendid!” said Peter; “that's just exactly like a book, isn't it, Mother?”
“It is, rather,” said Mother, smiling; “things do happen in real life that are rather like books, sometimes.”
“I am so awfully glad it IS you,” said Phyllis; “when you think of the tons of old gentlemen there are in the world—it might have been almost anyone.”
“I say, though,” said Peter, “you're not going to take Jim away, though, are you?”