On a particular afternoon in June, Sir Peter, with his cigar, and John, in flannels, writing, at a table under the trees, both looked up to see Phyllis coming toward them, from the house, with her baby in her arms.
The garden was full of the perfume of roses. They blossomed everywhere. There was a pink bud in John's buttonhole, and a red one in Sir Peter's. Phyllis had a great bunch of white roses at her waist. Her gown was white, too: soft and lacy and clinging. That would have been John's description of it; and he is a poet.
"Hullo, Phyllis," said John.
"S-h-h," said Phyllis.
"S-h-h, John," said Sir Peter.
Phyllis laid her precious burden in the perambulator, near Sir Peter's chair.
"Mark and Peggy will be here in half an hour," she announced. "She telephoned from Whinstead. Isn't it characteristic of Peggy?—a motor-car wedding-journey. They are having the most glorious time, she said. They can't stay, though; just a call."
"Whinstead, eh?" said John. "Well, if Mark is driving, he will cut that thirty minutes to twenty. I shall barely finish this page before they get here."
He was engaged upon the revision of "Old Valentines, and Other Poems," for the second edition. The little book, bound in red, with golden cupids, lay open on the table.
"Uncle Peter, see how beautifully baby is sleeping," said Phyllis.