‘Gentlemen,’ he says suddenly, ‘the lady you speak of is my wife, and had you all been at Tresham Court during my absence, ‘morning, noon, and night,’ it would not have given me a moment’s uneasiness.’ His confession is naturally followed by apologies, introductions, hand-shaking, and general invitations to the Court. Sir Roland even assures the somewhat shy little dandy in the corner that he has his hearty permission to flirt with Lady Tresham as much as possible. And then they all light up and try each other’s cigars, and become the fastest of friends in a very few minutes. Yet as he leaves them at the station, where the carriage is in waiting to convey him home, he cannot help wondering at the enthusiasm his wife’s looks have provoked amongst them. She _used_ to be very pretty in their first wedded days, before she grew so careless of her personal appearance—when she took pride in arraying her graceful little form, and dressing her beautiful hair, but slatternly clothes and unbecoming _coiffure_ are sufficient to conceal the beauty of any woman. Well! Sir Roland supposes that such things can be altered, but if he finds that Juliet’s bad taste is irreparable, he will be content with her as she is. He has brought enough trouble on her head already—the present shall never be clouded by his reproaches nor complaints. He is so eager to make atonement for the past, that the five miles between the station and Tresham Court appear like ten; but they are accomplished at last, and the carriage rolls through the iron gates and up the wooded drive. Half-way they come upon a group of children escorted by their nurses and a groom. Two beautiful boys in velvet suits, with golden curls falling over their Vandyke collars, are mounted on one pony, whilst another animal carries a pair of panniers, from which familiar little faces and blue eyes gaze up expectantly to meet his own. ‘Can those be my children?’ exclaims Sir Roland to himself; and then he gives the order to stop, and another minute sees him in the midst of them. But what a change! He can scarcely believe they are the same brats who, six weeks ago, used to hang over the garden palings in Camden Town, and put out their tongues at the passers-by—Lily and May in their white frocks and black ribbons, and little Roland in his smart pelisse; and the boys looking such noble fellows in their jackets and knickerbockers, with sunny hair, and clean faces and hands—it seems like a dream to the father as he kisses them all round, and admires the ponies and the panniers to their hearts’ content. He strides on to the house with his bosom swelling with pride at the appearance of his little ones, and is almost too pre-occupied to notice that everything is perfectly arranged within the Court and out.