Mark's and Peggy's stay was short—all too short. Mark settled down behind the wheel. "London, next," said he. Peggy's face was buried in roses as they drove off.
When they were seated again, under the trees, Phyllis regarding the baby with rapt eyes, John's curiosity suggested a question.
"Phyllis, please tell us what you set Mark to talking about. We tried everything."
"Why, about Peggy, of course," said Phyllis. "Silly! Couldn't you think of that?"
Mrs. Farquharson had awaited the departure of the Holroyds, and now, in her best black silk, came out to see the baby, and remained to chat for a few minutes. Her great news was that the first-floor front was in stocks again—with a prospect of seeing better days.
"And how is Mr. Rowlandson?" asked Phyllis.
"Odder than ever," replied Mrs. Farquharson. "He is getting a little childish, I think. The other night he told me the greatest rigmarole about some collector or other in Birmingham. He collected weapons, of all things! He had Mr. Rowlandson buy him swords, and daggers, and spears, and even bows and arrows from America, until his house fairly rattled with them. Finally, says Mr. Rowlandson, he got him the stone that David flung at Goliath, and the jawbone that Samson smote the Philistines with. 'Now,' says he, 'I am looking for the club that Cain slew Abel with, and then he will be complete.' Did ever you hear such a farrago? And his eyes twinkling all the time as though he was as sensible as ever could be! Yesterday I told him I was coming down here to take tea with Mrs. Burbage. 'With Mrs. Burbage!' says he. 'Well, what next?' 'Now, heed my words,' says I. 'That woman is not as black as she's been painted.' And then he laughs. Childish, I say. But he's terrible down on you, Mr. Landless, because the baby's a boy. 'Mr. Landless has disappointed me,' says he. 'He knows her name should be Valentine.' 'But, Mrs. Landless wanted a boy,' says I, 'to call him Peter'; as she has, bless his darling little heart, that knows his old Farquharson! 'Well,' says he, 'Mr. Landless put her up to it.'"
When she had returned to Burbage, John and Sir Peter began work on the proofs of "Recollections of an Engineer." The publishers had wished to call it "Recollections of a Great Engineer." Sir Peter told them quietly there would be no recollections if they insisted on the word.
The story of the Natal bridge would have been the making of this twelfth chapter. But the Natal story has a chapter of its own in the "Recollections" (chapter XXII—p. 227), and as the copyright restrictions are in force you will have to look for it there. Mr. Rowlandson has the book for sale—if you don't find it elsewhere.
The work on the proofs was interrupted when the baby insisted on having the red rose from Sir Peter's buttonhole. Sir Peter cut the thorns from its stem before he gave it into the tiny fingers.