I forget why; Charlotte made me, for some reason.”

He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in her lap.

“George, you baby, get up.”

“Why shouldn't I be a baby?” murmured George.

Unable to answer this question, she put down his sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out through the window. It was evening and again the spring.

“Oh, bother Charlotte,” she said thoughtfully. “What can such people be made of?”

“Same stuff as parsons are made of.”

“Nonsense!”

“Quite right. It is nonsense.”