"Very well, my dear," said Sir Peter meekly.
Phyllis went into the house. Sir Peter observed the windows keenly; when he thought the coast was clear he gently pushed the perambulator forward and backward with his foot.
Twenty minutes later a big gray car deposited three dusty persons on the little porch. Peggy and Phyllis cooed over each other. Mark pointed to Mrs. Farquharson.
"We picked her up," he said. "She had started to walk from the railway station."
Mrs. Farquharson surveyed him with an austerity that required no synonym.
"Never again," said she. "Pony-cart or no pony-cart. A hundred miles an hour, my dear, if ever he went one."
She retired to the rear, where Burbage could be found, with whom she had come to take tea and pass the afternoon.
"Lead me to the infant!" demanded Peggy. "I haven't seen him for so long I am prepared to find him in knickerbockers, smoking a cigarette."
"Peggy! only two weeks," exclaimed Phyllis.
"Two weeks!" rejoined Peggy. "Oh, in time, of course; but aeons in experience. We have had tire trouble—"