"Oh, cut that, Peg," suggested Mark.
"I will not," retorted Peggy. "We have paid enough for new tires since we started to endow Saint Ruth's. Each time our troubles have occurred in the exact center of population. I have been stared at from front and rear by the entire British people. And Mark has given the recording angel the time of his life. Everything has happened that could wreck our married happiness, but we are now armor-clad against infelicity. We have really had the most beau-ti-ful time! We haven't eaten a meal in an inn except breakfast. Simple life by the wayside for us! Two alcohol stoves—I am starved now, though! Perhaps we had better have tea before I see the baby—I might be tempted beyond my strength."
"And you are well, Mark?" asked Phyllis.
"Finer than a new crank-shaft," he replied, grinning. "I am also in the breadline though."
"One result of our difficulties was the development of Mark's conversational powers," whispered Peggy to Phyllis. "He is almost a self-starter now."
"How well you both look, brown as—"
"Don't say gypsies!" urged Peggy. "We have heard it everywhere."
"Indians, then," said Phyllis.
Tea was served under the trees. The baby awakened as though for Peggy's express benefit. He spluttered and gurgled, and made queer faces in his charming way, selecting Peggy for the most fascinating attentions After tea, Phyllis and Peggy went into the house to exchange confidences. Peggy carried the baby.
Sir Peter and John did their utmost with Mark. Motoring, cricket, tennis, golf—all had their turn. He was amiability itself, but he would not and could not be made to talk. They were at their wit's end when Phyllis and Peggy rejoined them, and Phyllis took Mark off to the garden.