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I've got a little present for
her, but--oh, well, never mind. I'll put it in her stocking, if you'll
tell me which is hers. But I say, why doesn't she like me, Bingle?" He
was staring at the back of Kathleen's brown, curly head, and his eyes
were filled with perplexity.
"Bashful--just bashful," explained Mr. Bingle.
"Do you really think so?" demanded the other eagerly.
"Sure," said Mr. Bingle, delighted. "All girls go through that stage
of development. I don't mind saying to you, Force, she's my favourite.
It's a dreadful thing to say, but I'd rather lose any one of them--or
all of them--than to lose Kathie. I love her with all my heart."
Flanders was shaking hands with the small boys, Mrs. Bingle looking on
with placid approval.
"What's your name, my little man?"
"Abraham."
"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Bingle, with a violent start.
"Reginald, sir," gasped he whose memory was still faithful when under
the pressure of excitement.
"I see," said Flanders, smiling down into Mrs. Bingle's embarrassed
eyes. "Lapsus linguae, Mrs.


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