nicest, Daddy? (She has constantly to repeat her questions, he is so
engaged with his moon.) Hie, Daddy, at what age are we nicest? Daddy,
hie, hie, at what age are we nicest?

DEARTH. Eh? That's a poser. I think you were nicest when you were two
and knew your alphabet up to G but fell over at H. No, you were best
when you were half-past three; or just before you struck six; or in
the mumps year, when I asked you in the early morning how you were
and you said solemnly 'I haven't tried yet.'

MARGARET (awestruck). Did I?

DEARTH. Such was your answer. (Struggling with the momentous
question.) But I am not sure that chicken-pox doesn't beat mumps. Oh
Lord, I'm all wrong. The nicest time in a father's life is the year
before she puts up her hair.

MARGARET (topheavy with pride in herself). I suppose that is a
splendid time. But there's a nicer year coming to you. Daddy, there
is a nicer year coming to you.

DEARTH. Is there, darling?

MARGARET. Daddy, the year she does put up her hair!

DEARTH. (with arrested brush). Puts it up for ever? You know, I am
afraid that when the day for that comes I shan't be able to stand it.
It will be too exciting. My poor heart, Margaret.

MARGARET (rushing at him). No, no, it will be lucky you, for it isn't