"What a little owl he is!" said Rita, but when she jangled her gold purse before his eyes he seized it with both hands and gurgled exultantly.
"He knows a good thing when he sees it," laughed Cort. "Got the gold fever, too."
"What a shame!" said Camilla indignantly. "He hasn't any kind of a fever, have you, Cornelius?"
The child said, "Da!"
"Didn't I tell you? He knows."
"He has such fuzzy pink hair!" said Cort, rubbing it the wrong way. "Do you think it will stay pink?"
"You sha'n't be godfather to my son if you say another word, Cortland. Here, nurse, take him. They sha'n't abuse him any longer." She pressed her lips rapturously against his rosy cheek and released him. Mrs. Rumsen gazed through her lorgnon, while the infant, with a cry of delight, pulled the glasses from the General's nose.
"No respect for age! None at all!" said Mrs. Rumsen.
After a while they all went away—Rita Cheyne to her post-graduate pupil, Mrs. Rumsen to her brougham, and Cort and his father to the walk downtown, leaving Camilla and Jeff sitting at the fireside alone. One armchair was big enough for them both. She sat on his knees and leaned back against him, close in the shelter of his arms.
"You didn't want to stay out to dinner, did you, Jeff?" she asked.