A good dinner in particular, and a comfortable sense of solvency in general, had thrown me into a half whimsical, half melancholy musing, from which I was roused by a small pair of hands placed over my eyes from behind, and a challenge to guess.

There was not the least possibility of it being any one other than it was, but I guessed “Jack Wharton,” and had my ears boxed. Jack Wharton is a large creature with fat fingers, and more rings on each of them than a Plantagenet sword has coronets—a well-meaning, meritorious kind of man, and my sister Carrie’s special aversion.

Carrie sat on the arm of my chair, and paid little feminine attentions to my hair, which she tried to make the most of—there is not so much of it as there once was. A certain tendency to early harvest in hair is a family trait, and I occasionally subdue the arrogance of my sister’s youth by reading to her from the health column of some family paper.

She patted down the last wisp, and addressed me.

“Do you know, Rol,” she said, “I have an idea.”

“I leap for joy, my dear,” I replied.

Carrie is used to me. She went on unheeding.

“Suppose—suppose we give a children’s party.”

I looked at her in surprise. A children’s party in my flat! What did she mean?

“Suppose we give a masked ball or a grandmother’s tea?” I suggested.

“Oh well, if you will be silly—” Caroline said, sitting straight up, and adjusting the lace frivolity on her wrists.

“But who on earth are you going to ask to a children’s party?” I asked.

“Oh, Rol,” she replied, “there are lots and lots of children. There’s Alice Carmichael’s nephew, Ted——”

“Ted Carmichael is seventeen years old,” I remarked.

“And Nellie Bassishaw,” she continued.

“Nellie Bassishaw is fifteen, and old-fashioned at that,” I replied.

“Well, you must have some one to take charge of the children, you know, Rol. But there are heaps and heaps of nice children. There’s Molly Chatterton, and little Chris Carmichael, and lots of others. I do think it would be fun.”

“I daresay it would,” I replied. “And yourself and young Bassishaw would look after them and amuse them, I suppose?”

“Yes, Arthur says he’ll come and help,” she answered. I had evidently not been the first one to be considered.

“And Arthur will bring half a dozen young Bassishaws, younger than Nellie?”

“Why, yes, I expect he will. Why not?”

“And has Arthur ordered a magic-lantern?” I asked.

“Not yet,” replied Carrie. “That is, he did suggest a magic-lantern—children like magic-lanterns, you know, Rol.”

I was aware of it—other people than children like magic-lanterns. I leaned back and sighed; it was apparently all arranged.

“And what date did you say you had decided on?” I asked.

“The 17th,” replied my dutiful sister; “that is, if you’ll be a good brother, and let us use your rooms, Rol.”

“Oh, anything you like,” I answered resignedly. “I’ll clear out to the club and you can do as you please. Only, mind you,” I added, “I insist that there shall be children. I will not be turned out of my rooms for you and Bassishaw and all the Nellies and Teds of your acquaintance to play any magic-lantern racket.”

“Oh, you dear brother!” cried Carrie, blowing a kiss down the back of my collar. “But you mustn’t go out, Rol. We shall want you to help, you know. You can——”

“Manage the gas, perhaps?” I suggested.

“Oh, the magic-lantern man will do that,” she replied, laughing. “You can call the forfeits—you used to know a lot of forfeits, Rol—and pull crackers and things.”

And have sprawling youngsters climbing my back, and nurse them when they get cross, I thought. But it was of no use demurring before a determined young sister. I must make the best of it.

I was given due notice on the 16th, and cleared my papers away. At Carrie’s suggestion I also took down a print or two—children were so quick at noticing things, she said. Then I had the satisfaction of seeing a Christmas-tree placed in the corner devoted to my armchair, and of being able to look forward to a week or two of occasional pine-needles and grease-spots from toy candles whenever I wanted to read. A hairy man also came with a tool-bag, which he threw on my dining-table, and proceeded to make what seemed to me a radical alteration in my gas system, trailing flexible tubes across the floor, over which I scarcely dared to step. I took my hat and fled, leaving Carrie to do as seemed good to her.

Carrie had made me promise to assist, and at five o’clock we were at the top of the stairs receiving our young guests. Arthur Bassishaw was there, of course—he had been about for the last two days, and had really, Carrie said, been invaluable. Every few minutes a nursemaid arrived with some pink-legged, fluffy little lump, muffled up to its bright eyes. Young Ted Carmichael brought my little friend Chris, who clasped my knees and demanded that I should be a dragon on the spot. Miss Nellie Bassishaw came with half a dozen little Bassishaws, casting a glance at Master Ted that made that young gentleman nervous about his gloves. Altogether by six o’clock some twenty small people were sitting round Carrie’s table, with an attendant maid or two tall behind them, and the noise was just beginning.

Carrie, to do her justice, ordered young Bassishaw about as if he were her own brother, and he assisted with piled-up plates and staggering jellies in the most creditable manner. Master Ted Carmichael, however, was evidently divided in mind as to whether he should consider himself purely a guest, or whether his age qualified him for attendance on the kids, a perplexity in which his palpable devotion to Nellie did not help him much. Nellie was difficult to woo that evening, and was playing off a smaller schoolboy on her half-grown-up admirer in a way that I liked immensely. She has the germs of mischief in her, and is pretty into the bargain. Ted, therefore, moved in a state of unrest—now helping in ministering to younger needs, and now resuming his seat helplessly. There was a speck of something in my memory that made me feel for Ted.

The noise increased, and by the time Master Chris—a most depraved child—had thrust a handful of raisin-stalks and broken biscuits down the neck of the lady of five whom he had taken in, children were romping here and there, regardless of whispering nurses who reminded them they were still at table. They were swept into another room by Carrie, with stamping of sturdy legs and pulling of crackers. Ted tried to remain behind to be near his disdainful lady, but I brought him along. I was willing to help him.

I engaged Master Ted in conversation. The children, I said, would soon be playing games, and then we men would have a few minutes to ourselves—perhaps time for a cigar. He stiffened up in pleased pride, and the front of his first dress-suit expanded. He was grown up, then. He ventured the remark that kids were awful slow, but they had to be amused, he expected.

“Slow, do you think, Ted?” I asked. “Why, I find them most interesting. Look at Miss Nellie there.” (She had just come in.) “She looks almost grown up, but any one can see she’s the biggest child of the lot. Look at her with little Molly Chatterton—she thinks she’s got a doll. Ah, Ted, girls like that are at a very awkward age.”

“They are awkward,” Ted admitted. “But Nellie, you know—Nellie’s not so very—she was fifteen last—she’s almost—oh, hang it, let’s go out for a smoke.”

We made for the balcony.

“Have a cigarette, Mr. Butterfield?” said Ted, proffering a small silver case.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I think I’ll have a cigar. Won’t you have one of these? They’re very mild.”

Ted looked doubtfully at it, and shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said; “I don’t often smoke cigars. I’m very fond of a pipe now and then—after breakfast, you know; but cigars are a little too much for me. Light?”

He held me a light, and puffed elegantly at his cigarette. Then continued thoughtfully:

“The worst of women is,” he said, “they seem to grow up so awfully quick, you know. Why, Nellie Bassishaw there, you know—we used to be rather flames when we were young. A year or two since, that is. We’re not so very old yet, you know, Mr. Butterfield,” he added, with a slightly conscious laugh.

“Call me Butterfield,” I said softly and encouragingly.

“I don’t mind saying,” he continued, “I was awfully stuck a while back. I used to walk round the house at nights, you know—darned silly, of course—and she used to drop me notes from her bedroom window. Of course you won’t say a word to any of the men, but at one time she wanted me to elope.”

“Indeed!” I said. “You surprise me. In that case I have greatly misjudged her. She is not so young as I thought she was.”

“No, she’s not really, Butterfield,” he said eagerly. “She’s awfully clever and grown up, and all that—that is, she was when we were so thick. Some time ago, you know.”

I nodded. I didn’t want to interrupt him.

“And she’s going to have her hair up next birthday,” he went on, “and then she’ll be quite grown up. I’m a bit sorry it’s all off.”

He threw down the end of his cigarette, and looked round at the balcony window.

“No,” I said, “it isn’t time for the magic-lantern yet. Half an hour or so. And you’re almost sorry it’s all off?”

“Well, yes, in some ways,” he replied. “Of course, I get about more than she does, you know. Men do see more life than girls, don’t they, Butterfield? I went to a dance the other week, and of course Nellie can’t go to dances yet. But the men were another set, you know, and the women—well, it’s not much fun sitting out in a conservatory with strange women, is it?”

I reserved my opinion on the point, and he went on. He got very confidential, and by the time he had got through another cigarette he had my views as to whether it was possible to keep a surreptitious wife at Eton, whither he was to return shortly. I rather took to Master Ted, and decided that Carrie and Bassishaw should not have all the fun out of the magic-lantern. I would willingly have prolonged the talk, but Ted was glancing nervously at the window, and thought we really should go in—the youngsters would need looking after.

We went in, in time to catch them playing some game with a closed door and a piece of mistletoe. I saw no necessity for Carrie and Arthur Bassishaw joining in, but join in they did, while Miss Nellie looked intelligently patronising. Ted was right—women did grow up quickly. As I took a seat beside her I heard Ted whisper to Carrie that her brother was a brick.

“I hope you are having a good time, Nellie?” I said.

Nellie tossed her curls.

“Of course, real dances are more in your line,” I continued, “but you can spare an evening for the children now and then.”

Nellie bit her lip; she felt the point keenly.

“I don’t go to dances, Mr. Butterfield,” she said stiffly.

“No?” I inquired blandly. “Well, some people are prejudiced against dancing. But I see no wrong in it myself. Do you regard dancing as frivolous?”

She had to make the humiliating confession.

“I don’t know anything about it,” replied Nellie, turning half away. “I am not allowed to go to dances.”

“Dear me!” I said; “motives of health, doubtless?”

“No, I’m not considered old enough.”

“Oh!” I said, in the tone of one who feels he has pushed his inquiries too far. “That is a pity. There is such fun at dances—sitting out, you know, and such things. You can’t have such fun anywhere else.”

Nellie looked a defiant “Couldn’t she, though,” and I considered my young friend Ted’s affair as good as arranged. I heard her whisper to Bassishaw later that Mr. Butterfield was a beast.

Carrie came bustling up to ask me to help in the preparations for the magic-lantern; and shortly afterwards the light was down, and the great white circle shifting and quivering on the sheet, to the whispering anticipation of eager children. When, a few minutes later, I had taken Chris Carmichael on my knee, and the pictures had begun, certain quiet indications from the back told me that Master Ted was having a good time. I couldn’t see the young monkeys at it, but I divined from the brooding peace in that direction that they were hand in hand. Hand in hand at least.

An hour later the place was quiet once more, and only Carrie, Bassishaw, and myself were left, gathered round the cold magic-lantern. I looked at it and shook my head. I had to do it three times before they noticed me.

“What is it now, Rol?” said Carrie.

“Sixteen next birthday,” I said to myself.

“What are you talking about?”

“Used to drop him notes from her bedroom window,” I mused.

“Oh, do shake him, Arthur.”

Arthur shook me. I looked severely at them both.

“I suppose you know what you’ve done,” I said, “you and your magic-lantern?”

They commenced a look of innocence, but I quelled them.

“If there is an elopement at your house shortly, Bassishaw,” I said, “you can thank this children’s party. Don’t pretend you didn’t see them.”

“I’m afraid, Butterfield, do you know, that they are mischievous young beggars,” replied Bassishaw; “but it’s not our fault.”

“Not your fault!” I said, with rather a touch of scorn, I think, in my voice; “not your fault! You bring overcharged adolescence together—you know the moral laxity of sixteen—you know the latent depravity of female sixteen especially—you provide them with a handy magic-lantern and every convenience—and it’s not your fault! Well, I did my best to dissuade you; you have only yourselves to thank. I wash my hands of all consequences. Don’t blame me.”

It pleased me to throw the responsibility on someone else.