The International
Georgie beamed at us both. "For a five-year-old he's no end of a sportsman. I've been teaching him to hit straight, coming down in the train. See him punch the cushions! Hits out at 'em like a good 'un."
"What is he doing with you?" I asked in some surprise.
Georgie's travelling companion was so extremely young.
"Look at his jolly fat legs!" Georgie hastily cried, disregarding my question. "Brown, and beefy, and as firm as a rock. There's no flabbiness about him."
He glanced as he spoke almost disparagingly at our son, who was even then stretching longing baby arms to his faithless friend from the mail-cart.
"Matthew Arnold is barely two," said I indignantly, and Drusilla looked hurt.
Georgie realized that he had been slightly wanting in tact.
"Of course, old Muffin face is immense," said he, digging him in the ribs. "Best little chap in the world." But his eyes quickly strayed back to his travelling com-
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