"Faver, make him take it away from me!" he demanded. "Faver, I'm all chained up! I'm a little dog!"
Little Angela, who looked like a slim, tiny Christmas-card Christ-kind, and was as fascinating a little demon as ever coquetted with the world at large, struggled to get down, and demanded to be chained up and be another little dog. Her father set her down, whereat she made a bolt for the dog, the bone, and her happily engaged brother.
"Do you think there's any way of conveying to him that this is not a new amusement, Allan?" demanded his mother, half-laughing.
"Don't let's try," said Allan promptly. "Everything's going beautifully. Philip's happy, and Angela's going to be gloriously dirty in a minute, which will give her nurse something to wash. You know how bitter Viola is about never getting the children to herself for a minute."
Phyllis slipped an arm through her tall husband's, as they stood by the steps together.
"No, but Allan, what would you do?"
Allan laughed.
"Send him back to Wallraven, and tell Johnny Hewitt to see that he's plunged into the middle of the chickenpox epidemic we fled from. How would you like that, young man?"
Philip looked up with deprecating politeness, on being directly addressed.
"Please, Faver, if you don't mind my name's Jinks! You must say, 'Here, Jinks,' and I say 'Woof! Woof!' and wag my tail."