"A year!" he said. "Well, don't let either of you think you're ever going to get rid of me again!" He scanned his wife deliberately.
"A bit thin, I think," he said. "But you haven't let her get any older, Dick. She hasn't grown up yet."
"Not she!" said Dick.
"To read her letters you might almost think she had—sometimes. I used to be a little anxious about it. I wouldn't know her if she grew up!" His arm tightened round her, and the keen eyes turned to Dick, dwelling on the well-knit, active figure.
"It's you who have done the growing up, old son," he said. "I left a little kiddie—but you aren't that now. Is he too big to be hugged, do you think, mother?"
"He's not!" said Dick, and proved that he was not.
"Well, that's all right," said Mr. Lester, with a great sigh. He sat down on the sofa, and drew one down on each side, holding them closely. The time flew by unheeded; they talked, more or less incoherently, occasionally falling into silence that was as satisfying as talk, since they were together again.
A tap came to the door an hour later—a steward, with telegrams. Mr. Lester glanced over them.
"Just greetings," he said. "I must answer them, though. Dick, can you find a telegraph office here?"
"Rather," said Dick. "I can go in the car."