We mounted to the terrace in front of the house and having established my guests in easy chairs, I went indoors to order such drink as would be refreshing on a sultry August noon.

When I returned I found Jaffery, with Susan on his knee, questioning Adrian, after the manner of a primitive savage, on the subject of "The Diamond Gate," and Adrian, delighted at the opportunity, dazzling our simple-minded friend with publisher's statistics.
"And you're writing another?
Deep down in another ?" asked Jaffery.

"Do you know, Susie, Uncle Adrian has just got to take a pen and jab it into a piece of paper, and--tchick!--up comes a golden sovereign every time he does it." Susan turned her serene gaze on Adrian.

"Do it now," she commanded.
"I haven't got a pen," said he.
"I'll fetch you one from Daddy's study," she said, sliding from Jaffery's knee.
Both Jaffery and Adrian looked scared.

I, who was not the father of a feminine thing of seven years old for nothing, interposed, I think, rather tactfully.
"Uncle Adrian can only do it with a great gold pen, and poor old daddy hasn't got one." "I call that silly," replied my daughter.