THE MINIATURE As we jogged along in the evening coolness and sweetness, we came upon Sir Arthur Ardaragh with little Robin on his shoulder.

The boy shouted with joy when he saw me; and when I had stopped the phaeton he called down from his height about the picnic tea father and he had had in the fields, his little fat hand upon his father's neck while he told it.
"Robin often won't eat a good tea in the nursery," his father explained.
"I think he wants other little boys to make him eat; he eats a famous tea when we have it together out-of-doors and travel a distance before we have it." "I never want other boys, dada," Robin said, "when I have you.

You are better than a brother even." "Have you been to see Sybil ?" Sir Arthur asked, recapturing the young gentleman and lifting him again to his shoulder.
To my annoyance, I felt my cheeks grow red, but his kind, serious eyes showed no knowledge of it.

I wished they were not so far away, those eyes, so absorbed with books and dead and gone people and dead languages.

I wished they were nearer home, took more obvious thought for the pretty young wife whom I had sometimes imagined to be jealous of her husband's absorption in his studies.
"I called, but I did not see Lady Ardaragh," I said.
"Ah, I suppose she had gone out.