"Ferguson!" said Gerald, turning to Hildegarde. "His mountain way! Becoming aware of your presence, he has retired, to reverse legs, and will shortly reappear, fondly hoping that you did not see him before."
Sure enough, in a few moments another tall boy entered, looking preternaturally grave, with his hair scrupulously smooth.
"Been upstairs, you see," said the irrepressible Gerald, "and slicked himself all up. Quite the Beauty, Fergs."
"Gerald, do be quiet!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "This is Philip, my other twin boy, Mrs. Grahame."
Philip greeted Hildegarde and her mother with grave courtesy, taking no notice of his brother's gibes.
"You find us in a good deal of confusion," he said to Hildegarde, sitting down on a table, the only available seat. "It takes a long time to get settled, don't you think so?"
"Oh—yes!" said Hildegarde, struggling for composure, and conscious of Gerald's eyes fixed intently on her. "But you all look so home-like and comfortable here."
"Especially Ferguson!" broke in Gerald, sotto voce. "How comfortable he looks, doesn't he, Miss Grahame? No use, Fergs! We marked your little footprints in the air, my son."
"Oh!" said Philip, looking much discomposed. "Well, I'll punch your head, Obe, anyhow."
"Suppose we come out and look at the tennis-court," said Bell. "I am sure you play tennis, Miss Grahame."