There is a lack of genial helpfulness about George that it sometimes
vexes me to notice. You would have thought he would have welcomed the
chance of assisting two old friends out of a dilemma; instead, he became
disagreeable.

"You do," said George, "and I shall tell them both that my original plan
was that we should make a party--children and all; that I should bring my
aunt, and that we should hire a charming old chateau I know of in
Normandy, on the coast, where the climate is peculiarly adapted to
delicate children, and the milk such as you do not get in England. I
shall add that you over-rode that suggestion, arguing we should be
happier by ourselves."

With a man like George kindness is of no use; you have to be firm.

"You do," said Harris, "and I, for one, will close with the offer. We
will just take that chateau. You will bring your aunt--I will see to
that,--and we will have a month of it. The children are all fond of you;
J. and I will be nowhere. You've promised to teach Edgar fishing; and it
is you who will have to play wild beasts. Since last Sunday Dick and
Muriel have talked of nothing else but your hippopotamus. We will picnic
in the woods--there will only be eleven of us,--and in the evenings we
will have music and recitations. Muriel is master of six pieces already,
as perhaps you know; and all the other children are quick studies."

George climbed down--he has no real courage--but he did not do it
gracefully. He said that if we were mean and cowardly and false-hearted
enough to stoop to such a shabby trick, he supposed he couldn't help it;
and that if I didn't intend to finish the whole bottle of claret myself,
he would trouble me to spare him a glass. He also added, somewhat