step just below her, sending a shower of drops all about her. With a scream she fled indoors, slamming the French window.
"You got her that time, all right," said Mops, grinning roguishly.
"Who is she?" I gasped.
"Oh, just mummy," replied Simon, nonchalantly.
The French window opened again. This time a young man in grey tweeds appeared. I quite expected to see him greeted with a shower also, but Simon respectfully lowered the hose.
"Did you turn that hose on your mother, Simon?" asked the young man sternly.
"Just a little," answered Simon.
"Well, the next time you do it you'll get your jacket dusted, do you hear?"
"Yes, father."
The young man disappeared into the house, three of the wet dogs following him.
"Isn't Lord Simon sweet?" asked Mops, with another roguish smile at me.
"Awfully," I replied politely, "but is the lady really your mother?"
"Let's feed," interrupted Simon, throwing down the hose, "I've a rare old twist on."
I was sorry he had interrupted us, for I yearned towards Mops, and I felt that further conversation with me would be acceptable to her, but we
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