"Umph," agreed William.
A tall, angular figure was coming up the drive.
The man fled into the house with a groan.
******
Mr. Monkton Graham was a literary man. That is to say, he wrote "The Mothers' Page" for "The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Mothers." He signed it "Peter's Mother." The page always centred round Peter.
"Peter's Mother" told how she dealt with Peter's measles and whooping-cough, and clothes, and temper (though Peter's disposition was really angelic), and how she arranged Peter's parties and treats and daily routine, and lessons and holidays, and how she influenced him for good with her sweet unselfishness and motherly wisdom, and what sweet things Peter did and said and thought. Peter was a decided cult. Mothers wrote to "Peter's Mother, care of The Office, 'Monthly Signal,'" for advice about John, or Henry, or Jimmie, or even Ann.
Mr. Monkton Graham was thinking of starting a Joan. Mothers sent flowers and photographs of John and Henry and Jimmie to him. Someone had even sent a tricycle to Peter. Mr. Monkton Graham had written a letter of thanks in a round and childish hand. They asked for photographs of Peter. Mr. Monkton Graham possessed an old photograph of a nephew of his. He had this "touched up" and sent it out to Peter's admirers. It appeared in the magazine. The nephew was in South Africa, and would hardly have recognised it in any case. It created quite a furore.
At first Mr. Monkton Graham's work had not been laborious. It had consisted of reading a paragraph in a standard reference book on the rearing of children, expanding it, Peterising it and adding the ineffably "sweet" touch of "Peter's Mother" that earned him his six guineas a week. But success went to his head.
He wrote a book about Peter. It was wildly popular. He wrote another. It was still more wildly popular. He received letters and presents and photographs innumerable. They voted him a second "Dearest" and Peter a second "Fauntleroy." He knew fame—even though a strictly incognito fame—at last. He always replied to his admirers—"sweet" little letters, breathing the very spirit of "Peter's Mother."
But last week, after a good dinner when he saw the world through a rosy mist, his usual discretion had deserted him. He had written to an admirer of Peter giving the name of the village and house where he lived. He had at the time not realised the significance of what he was doing. It only occurred to him the next morning when the letter was posted and the rosy mist had faded. The horrible thing had really happened. The woman had written to say that she was coming to see "darling Peter's darling mother" that day. The letter had come by the midday post, and the visitor might be there any minute.