Peggy sat with the men, chatting volubly. John's eyes followed Mark and Phyllis. When he could do so unobserved, he touched Sir Peter's arm quietly, and directed his attention to them. Mark was talking at full speed; Phyllis was listening, and cutting roses into a basket.
"Yes," said Peggy, "we have had some ripping times. The most ripping was yesterday. We almost robbed England of her greatest living poet, by nearly running Mr. Kipling down, near Pevensey. It was in a narrow lane and he was walking with his chin on his chest. We supposed, of course, he heard us. Mark used the emergency brake; the car slewed around; he wasn't even grazed. And he took it as coolly as you please. John, if we had hit him, would you be next in line for laureate?"
"I hope he was thinking out a sequel to 'Kim,'" said Sir Peter. "I picked that book up in the club library one day when I had a quarter of an hour to kill. I sat there all the afternoon. I have read it three times, since."
"I liked 'Stalky' best. How do the pretty little jingles go, John?" asked Peggy. She took a copy of "The Spectator" from the table, and turned the leaves, idly.
"Oh, jinglewise," answered John.
"My word! Listen to this," exclaimed Peggy; and then read—"'We should hesitate to say that Mr. Landless's name will stand higher than the second rank of poets. But so much praise he has fairly wrested from even the most captious reviewer. Indeed his "Lyrics" invite one to the dangerous pastime of prophecy; and prophecy of a bright future for this newest of our versifiers. Certainly, if the more serious work we are promised in "London: A Poem" (which is announced for the autumn) exceeds in dignity and restraint the best of his "Lyrics," we shall throw caution to the winds and predict great things for him. We observe two typographical errors on page—' Oh! who cares about the old typographical errors! Well, well, John. Isn't that splendid! What a happy girl Phil must be!"
"We are all very happy, Margaret," said Sir Peter. "And very proud to be related to him—even by marriage."
"And Phil tells me you have turned author, too," said Peggy to Sir Peter. "A young fellow like you to be writing your 'Recollections'! Think how much more you will have to recollect if you wait a few years."
Sir Peter shook his finger at her.
"If you are not careful, young woman, I will put you into them—as I first remember you, very red and wrinkled."