A slow smile came to the man's face.
“Well, I'll—be—darned,” he muttered half-shamefacedly, wholly delightedly. “If the rascal doesn't act as if he—knew me!”
“Ah—goo—spggghh!” grinned the infant, toothlessly, but entrancingly.
With almost a stealthy touch Cyril closed the door back of him, and advanced a little dubiously toward his son. His countenance carried a mixture of guilt, curiosity, and dogged determination so ludicrous that it was a pity none but baby eyes could see it. As if to meet more nearly on a level this baffling new acquaintance, Cyril got to his knees—somewhat stiffly, it must be confessed—and faced his son.
“Goo—eee—ooo—yah!” crowed the baby now, thrashing legs and arms about in a transport of joy at the acquisition of this new playmate.
“Well, well, young man, you—you don't say so!” stammered the growingly-proud father, thrusting a plainly timid and unaccustomed finger toward his offspring. “So you do know me, eh? Well, who am I?”
“Da—da!” gurgled the boy, triumphantly clutching the outstretched finger, and holding on with a tenacity that brought a gleeful chuckle to the lips of the man.
“Jove! but aren't you the strong little beggar, though! Needn't tell me you don't know a good thing when you see it! So I'm 'da-da,' am I?” he went on, unhesitatingly accepting as the pure gold of knowledge the shameless imitation vocabulary his son was foisting upon him. “Well, I expect I am, and—”
“Oh, Cyril!” The door had opened, and Marie was in the room. If she gave a start of surprise at her husband's unaccustomed attitude, she quickly controlled herself. “Julia said you wanted me. I must have been going down the back stairs when you came up the front, and—”
“Please, Mrs. Henshaw, is it Dot you have in here, or Dimple?” asked a new voice, as the second nurse entered by another door.