"Well—well—why are you all looking at me?" he asked in his confident little treble, with his baffling smile.
"Dearie, did you hear mother tell you to get quietly down and pick up your mug?" demanded Jean, authoritatively.
"Well—well, you know, I don't want to, mother, because Billy and I were both reaching for that mug," drawled Peter, "and maybe it was Billy who—"
"Now, look here, son!" said his father, controlling his impatience with difficulty, "we've had enough of this! You do it because your mother told you to, and you do it right NOW!"
"And don't let anything spoil this happy day," pleaded Jean's tender voice.
"Can't I let it stay there, mother?" suggested Peter, brilliantly, "and have my milk in a glass? I don't want my mug! It can just lie there—"
His mother unsmilingly interrupted this pleasantly offered solution.
"Peter! Father and mother are waiting."
"Gee—I'll pick it up!" said Billy Moore, good-naturedly, slipping to the floor.
Sidney reached for the little boy, and brought him to anchor in the curve of his big arm, without once glancing at him.