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“What do you mean?” said Sidney’s big voice, very quietly. There was a pause. Peter slowly turned his eyes toward his father.

“Oh, please, Sidney!” said Jean, a shade impatiently. “He thinks he has some reason.” She turned to Peter. “What do you mean, dear?” she asked pleasantly.

Peter looked about the group. He was confused and excited at finding himself so suddenly the centre of attention.

“Well–well–why are you all looking at me?” he asked in his confident little treble, with his baffling smile.

“Dearie, did you hear mother tell you to get quietly down and pick up your mug?” demanded Jean, authoritatively.

“Well–well, you know, I don’t want to, mother, because Billy and I were both reaching for that mug,” drawled Peter, “and maybe it was Billy who–“

“Now, look here, son!” said his father, controlling his impatience with difficulty, “we’ve had enough of this! You do it because your mother told you to, and you do it right NOW!”

“And don’t let anything spoil this happy day,” pleaded Jean’s tender voice.

“Can’t I let it stay there, mother?” suggested Peter, brilliantly, “and have my milk in a glass? I don’t want my mug! It can just lie there–“

His mother unsmilingly interrupted this pleasantly offered solution.

“Peter! Father and mother are waiting.”

“Gee–I’ll pick it up!” said Billy Moore, good-naturedly, slipping to the floor.

Sidney reached for the little boy, and brought him to anchor in the curve of his big arm, without once glancing at him.

“Thank you, Billy,” he said, “but Peter will pick it up himself. Now, Peter! We don’t care who knocked it down, or whose fault it was. Your mother told you to pick up your mug, and we are waiting to have you do it. Don’t talk about it any more. Nobody thinks it is at all smart or funny for boys to disobey their mothers!”

“It will take you JUST one second, dear,” interpolated Jean softly, “and then we will all go upstairs and get ready, and forget all about it.”

“Just a little too much c-i-r-c-u-s!” spelled Mrs. Moore, in the pause.

“Pick it up, son!” said Sidney, very calm.

Peter stopped smiling. He breathed hard and took a firm hold of his chair.

“Go on. Go ahead!” said his father, briskly, encouragingly.

The child moved his eyes from the mug to his father’s face, but did not stir.

“Peter?” said Sidney. A white line had come about his mouth.

For a long moment there was not a sound in the rooms. Julia stood transfixed at the door. Mrs. Moore’s eyes were on her plate. Jean’s lips were shut tight; she was breathing as if she had been running.

“I won’t!” said Peter, simply, with a quick breath.

“Sid!” said Jean, hurriedly. “Sidney!”

“Just a moment, Jean,” said her husband, without glancing at her. “You will do it now, or have father punish you to make you do it,” he said to the boy. “Father can’t have boys here who don’t obey, you know. Every one obeys. Soldiers have to, engineers have to, even animals have to. Are you going to do what mother told you to?”

“No,” said little Peter. “I said I wouldn’t, and now I won’t!”

“He is hot and excited now,” said Jean, quickly, in French, “but I’ll take him upstairs and quiet him down. He’ll come to his senses. Leave him to me, dear!”

“Much the wisest thing to do, Sidney,” supplemented Mrs. Moore, in the same tongue.

“Certainly!” said his father, coldly. “Give him time. Let him understand that if he doesn’t obey, it means no circus. That’s reasonable, I think, Jean?”

“Oh, perfectly! Perfectly!” Mrs. Carolan assented nervously. Nothing more was said as she took the boy’s hand and led him away. The others heard Peter chatting cheerfully as he mounted the stairway a moment later.

“The boys and I will go down and look at Nellie’s puppies,” said Mrs. Moore, acutely uncomfortable.

Her host muttered something about closing his mail.

“But are we going to the circus?” fretted little George Moore. His mother hardly heard him.