I SAY, Clifford, when is your birthday?” This momentous question was asked of Clifford with the liveliest interest by Cissy Pickering, a remarkably pretty little girl of about his own age.

They were in the gigantic and gorgeous apartment set apart as a playroom for the young Pickerings in Hamilton Place, Park Lane, and arranged partly as a gymnasium—it had all the necessities—partly as a schoolroom. It contained a magnificent dolls’ house fitted up with Louis Quinze furniture and illuminated with real electric light; a miniature motor car in which two small people could drive themselves with authentic petrol round and round the polished floor; a mechanical rocking-horse; a miniature billiard-table and croquet set; a gramophone; cricket on the hearth, roller-skates; a pianola, and countless other luxuries.Decorated by illustrations of fairy tales on the walls, it was altogether a delightful room; made for all a child could want.

It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amusements are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time. Whether such indulgence and realisation of youthful dreams have a good effect on the character in later life is a different question. At any rate, to go to tea with the Pickerings was the dream of all their young friends and gave them much to think of and long for, while it gave to the young host and hostess immense gratification and material pride.

“My birthday? Oh, I don’t know—oh, it’s on the twenty-seventh May,” said Clifford, who was far more shy of the young lady than of her mother.

“Fancy! Just fancy! and mine’s on the twenty-eighth June! Isn’t it funny!”

Cissy was surprised at almost everything. It added to her popularity.

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, Clifford!”“You must be born some time or other, I mean,” he said, wriggling his head and twisting his feet, as he did when he felt embarrassed. Miss Pickering made him feel embarrassed because she asked so many direct personal questions, seemed so interested and surprised at everything, and volunteered so much private—but, it seemed to him, unimportant—information.

“My name is Cecilia Muriel Margaret Pickering. My birthday’s on the twenty-eighth June, and Eustace’s birthday is on the fifteenth February. Isn’t it funny?”

“No, not at all,” said Clifford.

“His name is Eustace Henry John Pickering, after father. At least John’s after father and Henry’s after grandpapa—I mean, mummy’s father, you know. Eustace is just a fancy name—a name mummy thought of. Do you like it?”

“Not much.”

“Oh, Clifford! Why not?”

“Well, it’s rather a queer name.”

“Do you call him Eustace?”

“I call him Pickering, of course,” said Clifford. “At school we don’t know each other’s Christian names.”

“Oh! … Did you know mine before you came here, Clifford?”“No. I only knew he had a kiddy sister, but he didn’t tell me your name.”

She looked rather crushed. Cissy was a lovely child with golden hair, parted on one side, and a dainty white and pink dress like a doll. Cissy was in love with Clifford, but Clifford was in love with her mother. This simple nursery tragedy may sound strange, but as a matter of fact it is a kind of thing that happens every day. Similar complications are to be found in almost every schoolroom.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying that,” said Clifford, who began to be sorry for her. “About your being a kid. It doesn’t matter a bit—for a girl.”

“Oh, Clifford! No, I don’t mind.” She smiled at him, consoled. “Eustace will soon be home. He’s gone to get something.”

“Oh, good.”

“Do you mind his not being here yet?”

“No, not a bit.”

“You told me you had something to show me,” said the little girl. “You’ve been writing poetry. I should so like to see it.”

He blushed and said: “I’ve brought it. But I don’t think it’s any good. I don’t think I’ll show it to you.”

“Oh, please, please, please, do!”

“You’ll go telling everyone. Girls always do.”“I promise, I swear I won’t! Not a soul. Not even mummy. I never tell Eustace’s secrets.”

“I should think not! Now mind you don’t, then. Will you, Cissy?”

“Oh, do go on, dear Clifford; because when Eustace is here we shall have to play games—’Happy Families’ or something—and I sha’n’t have another chance. I believe he’s got some joke on. I hear you’ve written a play. Have you?”

“Well, I began an historical play,” said Clifford, who was beginning to think a little sister with proper respect for one might be rather a luxury, “but I chucked it. I found it was rather slow. So then I tried to write a poem. But I’m not going to grow up and be one of those rotten poets with long hair, that you read of. Don’t think that.”

“Aren’t you? Oh, that’s right. What are you going to be, Clifford?”

“Oh! I think I shall be an inventor or an explorer, and go out after the North or South Pole, or shoot lions.”

“Oh! How splendid! Won’t you take me? I’d love to come!”

He smiled. “It wouldn’t do for girls.”

“But I sha’n’t be a girl then. I’ll be grown-up. Do let me come!”“We’ll see. Don’t bother.”

“Well! Show me the poem,” she said, for she already had the instinct to see that it pleased him and interested him much more to show her what he was doing at present than to make promises and plans about her future.

They went and sat on the delightful wide-cushioned window-seat. Clifford pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper, covered with pencil marks. He curled himself up, and Cissy curled herself up beside him and looked over his shoulder.

He began: “I’m afraid this one’s no use—no earthly—— I say, Cissy, take your hair out of my eyes.”

She shook it back and sat a little farther off, with her eyes and mouth open as he read in a rather gruff voice:

“Sonnet.”

“What’s a sonnet, Clifford?”

He was rather baffled. “This is.”

He went on:

“Lovely! How beautiful!” exclaimed Cissy, like a true woman. “But Mrs. Pickering! Fancy! Does it mean mummy?”

“Why, yes. As a matter of fact it certainly does.”

“Oh, Clifford! How clever! How splendid! But mustn’t she know it?”

“Oh no. I’d rather not. At any rate, not now.”

“I wish it was to me!” exclaimed the child. “Then you needn’t be so shy about it. Why don’t you change it to me? Look here—like this. Say:

Cissy instead of Mrs.!”

“Oh no, my dear. That wouldn’t do at all. It isn’t done. You can’t alter a sonnet to another person. If it came to that I’d sooner write one to you as well, some time or another, when you’re older.”

“Oh, do, dear Cliff! I should love it.”

“All right. Perhaps I will some day. But, you see, just now I want to do the one about her.”

“It’s very nice and polite of you,” she said in a doubting voice. “But you said you’d done some more.”

“Rather. So I have. You mustn’t think it’s cheek, you know, if I call your mother by her Christian name in the poetry. It’s only for the rhyme.”

Blushing and apologetically he read aloud in his gruff, shy voice:

“As a matter of fact she never said it at all,” said the boy, folding it up. “That’s only because it’s poetry. And I only used her name for the rhyme.”

“Yes, I see. You’re very clever!”

“Don’t you see any faults in it? I wish you’d tell me straight out exactly what you think, if you see anything wrong,” said Clifford, like all young writers who think they are pining for criticism but are really yearning for praise. “I would like,” he said, “for you to find any fault you possibly could! Say exactly what you really mean.”

He really thought he meant it.

“Well, I don’t see one fault! I think it’s perfect,” replied Cissy, like all intelligent women in love with the writer. Her instinct warned her against finding any fault. Had she found any it would have been the only thing Clifford would have thought she happened to be wrong about. As it was, his opinion of her judgment and general mental capacity went up enormously, and he decided that she was a very clever kid. A decent little girl too, and not at all bad looking.

“But aren’t they a little short, Cissy?” he asked.

“Perhaps they are. But you can easily make them longer, can’t you?”

“Oh yes, rather, of course I can.”

“Don’t you want mummy to see them?”

“Oh no, I don’t think I do; wouldn’t she laugh at me?”

“Oh no, I’m sure she wouldn’t, Clifford. She’s coming to have tea with us to-night.”

“Well, mind you don’t tell,” he said threateningly.

“Of course, I won’t. You can trust me. I say, Clifford.”

“Well?”

“What do you think I used to want to do?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

She hesitated a moment. “Shall I tell you?”

“If you like.”

“Well, I used to want to marry Henry Ainley!”

“Did you, though,” said Clifford, not very interested.“Yes. But I don’t now.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“No, not the least bit.”

“Did he want to marry you?” asked Clifford. This idea occurred to him as being conversational, but he was still not interested.

“Oh, good gracious, no!” she exclaimed. “Of course not! rather not! Why, he doesn’t know me. And if he did he would think I was a little girl.”

“Well, so you are,” said Clifford.

“I know. Shall I tell you why I don’t want to marry Henry Ainley any more?”

“You can if you want to.” These matrimonial schemes seemed to bore him, but he thought he ought to endure them as a matter of fair play, as she had listened to his poetry.

“Well, I don’t care so much about marrying him now, because I should like to marry you!”

“Me! Oh, good Lord, I don’t want to be engaged, thanks.”

“Oh, Clifford, do!”

“None of the chaps at school are engaged. It isn’t done. Being engaged is rot. Pickering isn’t engaged.”

“Yes; but I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” she said, pouting.

“Well, I do, and I sha’n’t be.”“But mightn’t you later on, when we’re older?” she implored.

“Why, no, I shouldn’t think so. Why, your mother would be very angry. You’re only twelve. You’re not out. You can’t be engaged before you’re out. Your mother would think it awful cheek of me.”

“Well, I won’t say anything more about it now,” she said. “But, Clifford, will you, perhaps, when I am out?”

“Oh, good Lord! What utter bosh. How do I know what I’ll do when you’re out?”

She began to look tearful.

“Oh, well, all right. I’ll see. Perhaps I may. Mind, I don’t promise.”

He was thinking that if he refused her irrevocably and unconditionally he might not be asked to the house again. And he liked going on account of Pickering, Mrs. Pickering, and the house.

“Look here,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Let’s forget all about this. I don’t think your mother would like it.”

“You think so much of my mother,” she answered.

“Well, I should think so, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Clifford, I love her, of course.”

“Well, then, don’t you want me to like her?”

“Oh yes; but not much more than me.”“Oh, well, I can’t help that,” he said very decidedly.

She looked subdued.

“Then you do like me a little bit too, Clifford?”

“Yes, of course. I say, don’t worry.”

“All right, I beg your pardon, Clifford. … Oh, there’s Eustace!”

His step was heard. When his friends were there his sister called him Pickering, not to be out of it.

“Won’t you kiss me to show you’re not cross with me, Clifford?”

“Yes, if you like, my dear. But we’re not engaged, you know.”

“Right-o,” she answered.

He kissed her hurriedly and Eustace came in. Eustace was a big dark thin boy of fourteen, not good-looking or like his sister in any way, but with a very pleasant humorous expression. He was remarkably clever at school, and his reports were, with regard to work, quite unusually high. Conduct was not so satisfactory, though he was popular both with boys and masters. His two hobbies were chemistry and practical jokes. Unfortunately the clear distinction between the two was not always sufficiently marked; the one merged too frequently into the other. Hence occasional trouble.Eustace had his arms full of parcels, which looked rather exciting. He informed his delighted sister and friend that they were going to have private fireworks on the balcony.

“Gracious, how ripping!” cried Clifford. “But it isn’t the fifth of November.”

“Who on earth ever said it was?”

“Is it anybody’s birthday?” asked Cissy.

“I daresay,” said Pickering. “Sure to be.”

“But you don’t know that it’s anybody’s birthday for a fact, do you?”

“Yes, I do. It’s a dead cert that it’s somebody’s. Somebody’s born every day. It’s probably several people’s birthday.”

“But you don’t know whose?”

“No. I don’t know whose and I don’t want to; what does it matter? Who cares?”

They both laughed heartily. It was so like Pickering! That was Pickering all over to give an exhibition of fireworks in honour of the birthday of somebody he didn’t know anything about, or in honour of its not being the fifth November.

“But will mummy mind? Won’t she be afraid?”

“She won’t mind, because she won’t know. And she won’t be afraid because she and father are going out to dinner and they won’t hear anything about it until all the danger’s over. I’ve got rockets and Bengal lights and all sorts of things here.”

“But suppose they catch fire to the curtains on the balcony and we have a fire-escape here,” suggested Cissy.

“Well, and wouldn’t that be ripping?”

They admitted that it would.

“Have you ever been down a fire-escape, Clifford?” asked Pickering.

“Me? Down a fire-escape? Wait a minute, let me think. No, no. Now I come to think of it, upon my word, I don’t think I ever have. Not down a fire-escape.”

“Ah, I thought not,” said Pickering knowingly, as if he had spent his life doing nothing else. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

“Well, have you?”

“Me?” said Pickering. “Well, I don’t know that I have, exactly. But I know all about it. Besides I once drove to a fire with one of the firemen. It was jolly.”

“But you’re not going to give a fire-escape performance to-night, are you? I thought you were only going to have fireworks.”

“Yes, of course, that’s all, and there’s no danger really. How surprised the people in the street will be when they see those ripping rockets go whizzing up! I daresay we shall have a crowd round us.”“But I say, Eustace. Won’t mummy say it’s vulgar?”

“What’s vulgar?”

“Why, to have fireworks. She says we oughtn’t to attract too much attention and do anything ostentatious. She often says so.”

“Oh, my dear, that’s all right. These are private fireworks! No one will know about it.”

“But you’ll have to tell Wenham,” said Cissy.

Wenham was a confidential butler who helped Pickering out of many scrapes.

“Of course I shall tell Wenham; at least, I shall as soon as they have started. Now shut up about it. Here’s mummy.”

Pretty Mrs. Pickering joined them at tea, played games with them—they did some delightful charades—and amused them and herself until it was time for her to go and dress for dinner, leaving Clifford more enchanted with her than ever.

About a quarter to eight the children had the house more or less to themselves. Cissy’s governess had a holiday and the aged nurse (who had no sort of control over Pickering) was the only person there who had even a shadow of authority. She was to see that Cissy didn’t play wild games, and went to bed at half-past eight, but as a matter of fact the aged nurse did neither. Cissy stayed with the boys as long as they would allow her. At last the joyous moment arrived, they went on the balcony and Pickering started his first rocket. Cissy, a little frightened, clung to Clifford.

“Suppose we have a crowd round the house,” she murmured.

“You see how easy it is,” Pickering said. “Anyone with a little sense can do it. Now! Now, Cissy! get out of the way!”

They waited and waited. But, alas! nothing happened. He tried again and yet again, but it turned out a failure, the sort of tragedy that is more disappointing than any danger or even any accident. … It fell completely flat.

*

There must have been something the matter with the infernal fireworks. It couldn’t have been Pickering not knowing how to do them.

That was impossible, simply because Pickering always knew how to do everything.

The wretched man who sold them to him must have cheated.

It was a terrible fiasco. Not a single one of the rotten things went off. The most awful thing happened that could happen in life. After great fear, hope, suspense, excitement and joy, the squibs were damp!Nothing went off. Nothing happened. As to the Bengal fire, nothing was ever seen of it but some damp paper and a very horrible scent.

Certainly there was no vulgarity about it, no ostentation, except the perfume. The fireworks were as private as they could possibly be!

“At any rate,” said Cissy, trying to console her guest, “perhaps it’s better than if the house had caught fire and we had all been burnt up!”

They weren’t so very sure. It wouldn’t have been so flat.

Then Pickering made an attempt to imply that the whole thing was simply a practical joke of his.

“Well, if it is,” said Clifford to himself, “by Jove, if it is—it’s the greatest success I’ve ever seen in my life!”