Anyhow, they've made his den a sort of--of annex to the nursery." "But--but Cyril! What does he say ?" stammered the dumfounded Aunt Hannah.

"Think of Cyril's standing a thing like that! Doesn't he do anything--or say anything ?" Billy smiled, and lifted her brows quizzically.
"My dear Aunt Hannah, did you ever know _many_ people to have the courage to 'say things' to one of those becapped, beaproned, bespotless creatures of loftily superb superiority known as trained nurses?
Besides, you wouldn't recognize Cyril now.

Nobody would.

He's as meek as Moses, and has been ever since his two young sons were laid in his reluctant, trembling arms.

He breaks into a cold sweat at nothing, and moves about his own home as if he were a stranger and an interloper, endured merely on sufferance in this abode of strange women and strange babies." "Nonsense!" scoffed Aunt Hannah.
"But it's so," maintained Billy, merrily.