Bingle was having his hands full.

He had lost all control of the little ruffians. (The park policeman
was the first to call them ruffians, so I may be pardoned.) They
insisted on playing games that Mr. Bingle couldn't play, and he was
beginning to look worried. Time and again he tried to herd them into
the big station 'bus in which he had brought them over from Seafood
(the Bingle estate), and always with so little success that he was
getting hot and tired--and farther away from the conveyance all the
time. Still he smiled cheerfully and gave no sign of losing his
temper.

They were frolicking in the neighbourhood of the lake at the north end
of the park, and Miss Colgate was sitting on one of the benches not
far removed from the scene of activity. She began to feel sorry for
the little foster-father. He was having a time of it! The first thing
he knew, one of the little insurgents would tumble into the lake and--
well, she couldn't imagine anything more droll than Mr. Bingle
venturing into the water as a rescuer. At last, moved by an impulse
that afterwards took its place as the psychic capstone in her career,
she arose and resolutely went to his relief. He was panting and
perspiring, for the spring day was warm.

"May I help you to gather them up?" she inquired.

Now, Mr. Bingle was not accustomed to seeing girls as pretty as the
one who accosted him so amiably. At first, he said no, he was very
much obliged, he guessed he could manage 'em, thank you. He wasn't
quite sure that it was right for him to "take up" with a strange and
beautiful young woman in a public park. One never could tell about