"We are his environment," Phyllis reminded him. "As far as I know we are rather nice people."
The Harringtons, John Hewitt, with Gail and her cousin, not to speak of Joy, were enjoying an unseasonably hot day in the Harrington garden. They had all been playing tennis, and now everybody was sitting or lying about, getting rested. The trees kept the morning sun from being too much of a nuisance, and there was a tray with lemonade, and sweet biscuits which were unquestionably going to ruin everybody's luncheon appetite.
"What that child needs," answered his father, taking another glass of lemonade and the remaining biscuits, "is young life-companions his own age."
They had all been racking their brains to think of a punishment that would fit Philip's crime, or at least some warning that would bring it home to him. He had been led by Viola, subdued and courteous, to tell Miss Addison that he had deceived her. He did, very carefully.
"But it might of been my father," he explained as he ended. "Oughtn't we to be glad that it wasn't my father, Miss Addison?"
Miss Addison, quite nonplused by this unexpected moral turn to the conversation, had acknowledged defeat, and fed Philip largely. He had a very good time, apparently, for he grieved to Viola all the way home over Angela's missing such a pleasant afternoon. When he returned he flung himself on Allan.
"Oh, Father, please let Angela go, too, next time I go 'pologizing!" he implored. "There were such nice little cakes—just the kind Mother lets her eat!"
Allan shook his head despairingly.
"Please remove him, Viola," he said. "I want to think."
Not only he, but Phyllis and John, had spent a day thinking. No one had, as yet, reached any conclusion at all.