“I’ve been sketching. At least I intended to sketch,” Archibald paraphrased.
She laughed. The laugh was as satisfactory in its way as the smile.
“Yes, it’s that kind of a day,” she admitted lazily.
She moved a wandering puppy and a kitten or two, to make room for the man on the grassy bank beside her, but there was no coquetry in the invitation—merely a matter-of-fact acceptance of another companion less reliable than the collie perhaps, less amusing than the puppies and kittens and babies, but doubtless well meaning. There was June joy enough for all comers, and she was no monopolist. And when Archibald had stretched himself out on his back beside her, she evidently considered her responsibility ended, took his well being and content for granted, and went back to playing with her young things. The young things, after their first surprise, accepted him in much the same tranquil way. Only Sandy, the collie, maintained a haughty aloofness, stood manifestly on guard.
One of the kittens made a tentative excursion along the man’s recumbent form and curled up in a soft ball on his chest. A puppy of inquiring and friendly turn of mind chewed two or three of the newcomer’s fingers in turn, then gamboled awkwardly up to his head and licked his cheek with a warm, wet tongue. A chubby, laughing baby in sadly faded and much patched blue rompers filled her hot little hands with Quaker ladies and scattered them painstakingly over the front of the artist’s flannel shirt.
“Thank you, Ophelia,” murmured Archibald. “Or perhaps I should say Hamlet,” he added doubtfully.
The Smiling Lady rescued a kitten from the strangle hold of the other diminutive being in blue rompers, and cleared up the situation.
“There’s simply no telling in rompers,” she said. “But that’s Rosamond strewing flowers over you and this is Jeremiah. They’re the Johnston twins, four years old and very active, thank you. Father Johnston is religious and Mother Johnston is romantic and each one named a baby, but I do think Mr. Johnston might have picked out one of the cheerful prophets. Jerry isn’t a bit of a wailer. Jerry and Rosy aren’t such bad little names for them, though, are they?”
“Very good little names,” protested Archibald. “But how do you know which child belongs to which name?”
“You have to go by manners, not by looks,” the Smiling Lady explained. “Now if Jerry’s attention had been concentrated upon you, he wouldn’t have strewn flowers over you. He’d probably have bitten your thumb or poked a finger in your eye. You see, Jerry’s on the way to being a man.”