Before Mrs. Henshaw could answer, Cyril, who had got to his feet, turned sharply.
“Is it—who?” he demanded.
“Oh! Oh, Mr. Henshaw,” stammered the girl. “I beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here. It was only that I wanted to know which baby it was. We thought we had Dot with us, until—”
“Dot! Dimple!” exploded the man. “Do you mean to say you have given my sons the ridiculous names of 'Dot' and 'Dimple'?”
“Why, no—yes—well, that is—we had to call them something,” faltered the nurse, as with a despairing glance at her mistress, she plunged through the doorway.
Cyril turned to his wife.
“Marie, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Why, Cyril, dear, don't—don't get so wrought up,” she begged. “It's only as Mary said, we had to call them something, and—”
“Wrought up, indeed!” interrupted Cyril, savagely. “Who wouldn't be? 'Dot' and 'Dimple'! Great Scott! One would think those boys were a couple of kittens or puppies; that they didn't know anything—didn't have any brains! But they have—if the other is anything like this one, at least,” he declared, pointing to his son on the floor, who, at this opportune moment joined in the conversation to the extent of an appropriate “Ah—goo—da—da!”
“There, hear that, will you?” triumphed the father. “What did I tell you? That's the way he's been going on ever since I came into the room; The little rascal knows me—so soon!”