So Christopher was carried downstairs, and regaled with three chocolates and the story of the Three Bears. He then fell asleep, and was cautiously conveyed up to bed. Having proved himself to have very much the master-mind he proceeded, during the rest of his visit, to rule his hosts with a rod of iron. The only person who could withstand him was Nana. With considerable sagacity Christopher attached himself to his uncle and aunt, and spent his time in riotous living. His chief joy was to accompany Elizabeth in the pony-trap when she went shopping, and to hold the reins. On one of these expeditions he was introduced to Lady Ribblemere, and when she bent to embrace him, backed quickly, and requested her to go away.

“I—I think it’s because you have a large hat on,” Elizabeth said, in excuse for his behaviour. “He—he doesn’t like them.”

“He does,” Christopher said firmly.

“Aren’t you going to give me a nice kiss, dear?” Lady Ribblemere coaxed him.

Christopher shook his head violently.

“Kiss Hector,” he said, and nearly fell out of the trap in his efforts to clasp the wolf-hound round the neck.

“Dear me, he is a very sturdy little fellow,” Lady Ribblemere said. “What are you going to be when you’re grown up, Christopher?”

Christopher considered the point at length.

“Engine-driver,” he said presently. “Ta-ta!” He waved his hand inexorably, and requested Timothy to Gee-up.

When his summary dismissal of Lady Ribblemere was reported, between giggles, to his uncle, Stephen tossed him up in his arms and told him that he showed great discrimination. Christopher grasped his coat collar and struggled for words.

“He had—a wide on the pony!” he informed Stephen. “Auntie held him on.”

Stephen reflected that Auntie had never been so gay as now, when she was in such demand. It was a surprise to him when she romped with Christopher; all self-consciousness left her; again and again rippling laughter came, so that he laid down his pen to watch her, and to listen. Or he would be drawn into the game, much to Christopher’s delight, and would impersonate an engine, or a pony, mostly of the runaway order, for his nephew’s amusement.

Nana unearthed aged picture-books from one of the box-rooms, and these Christopher perused, with the aid of his hosts. He sat upon the floor with his aunt on one side and his uncle on the other, and the book open on his lap. One fat finger pressed hard upon a luridly coloured cow.

“Moo-cow.”

His hearers applauded nobly. A catechism followed.

“What’s his name?”

“Jeremiah,” Stephen said.

“Oh! What’s he doing?”

“Chewing the cud.”

“Don’t be so feeble,” laughed Elizabeth.

“Well, you tell him.”

“Not at all. I’m not a novelist.”

“He’s eating,” Christopher said.

“That’s what I said,” Stephen pointed out.

“Didn’t!” Christopher said scornfully. He turned to Elizabeth. You tell me ’about him.”