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“Peter,” I said to the somnolent one, “you can’t deceive a woman. Also men are pigs. Wake up, and we will apologize to your aunt for doubting her. Sorry, Myra.”

Myra pinned a flower in my coat and forgave me, and we walked off together with the perambulator.

“Peter is seeing a bit of life this morning,” I said. “What shall we show him now?”

“Thomas and Samuel are playing golf,” said Myra casually.

I looked at her doubtfully.

“Is that quite suitable?”

“I think if we didn’t let him stay too long it would be all right. Dahlia wouldn’t like him to be overexcited.”

“Well, he can’t be introduced to the game too early. Come on, Peter.” And we pushed into more open country.

The 9-hole course which Simpson planned a year ago is not yet used for the Open Championship, though it is certainly better than it was last summer. But it is short and narrow and dog-legged, and, particularly when Simpson is playing on it, dangerous.

“We are now in the zone of fire,” I said. “Samuel’s repainted ninepenny may whiz past us at any moment. Perhaps I had better go first.” I tied my handkerchief to Myra’s sunshade and led the way with the white flag.

A ball came over the barn and rolled towards us, just reaching one of the wheels. I gave a yell.

“Hallo!” bellowed Simpson from behind the barn.

“You’re firing on the ambulance,” I shouted.

He hurried up, followed leisurely by Thomas.

“I say,” he said excitedly, “have I hurt him?”

“You have not even waked him. He has the special gift of–was it Wellington or Napoleon?–that of being able to sleep through the heaviest battle.”

“Hallo!” said Thomas. “Good old boy! What’s he been learning to-day?” he added, with godfatherly interest.

“We’re showing him life to-day. He has come to see Simpson play golf.”

“Doesn’t he ever sit up?” asked Simpson, looking at him with interest. “I don’t see how he’s going to see anything if he’s always on his back. Unless it were something in the air.”

“Don’t you ever get the ball in the air?” said Myra innocently.

“What will his Uncle Samuel show him if he does sit up?” I asked. “Let’s decide first if it’s going to be anything worth watching. Which hole are you for? The third?”

“The eighth. My last shot had a bit of a slice.”

“A slice! It had about the whole joint. I doubt,” I said to Myra, “if we shall do much good here; let’s push on.”

But Myra had put down the hood and taken some of the clothes off Peter. Peter stirred slightly. He seemed to know that something was going on. Then suddenly he woke up, just in time to see Simpson miss the ball completely. Instantly he gave a cry.

“Now you’ve done it,” said Myra. “He’s got to go in. And I’m afraid he’ll go away with quite a wrong idea of the game.”

But I was not thinking of the baby. Although I am to be his uncle by marriage I had forgotten him.

“If that’s about Simpson’s form to-day,” I said to Myra, “you and I could still take them on and beat them.”

Myra looked up eagerly.

“What about Peter?” she asked; but she didn’t ask it very firmly.

“We promised Dahlia to take him in directly he cried,” I said. “She’d be very upset if she thought she couldn’t trust us. And we’ve got to go in for our clubs, anyway,” I added.

Peter was sleeping peacefully again, but a promise is a promise. After all, we had done a good deal for his education that morning. We had shown him human nature at work, and the position of golf in the universe.

“We’ll meet you on the first tee,” said Myra to Thomas.

VI.–HE SLEEPS

“It’s sad to think that to-morrow we shall be in London,” said Simpson, with a sigh.

“Rotten,” agreed Thomas, and took another peach.

There was a moment’s silence.

“We shall miss you,” I said, after careful thought. I waited in vain for Dahlia to say something, and then added, “You must both come again next year.”