Rivers shrewdly guessed that Hilda's little sister was scarcely a welcome guest, as far as Quentyns was concerned. Rivers had taken a fancy to pretty Mrs. Quentyns. With a quick mental survey he saw again the picture of the young wife on the night when he had dined at Philippa Terrace. "She did not look perfectly happy," he thought. "I hope Quentyns is good to her. I seldom saw a more charming face than hers, but with such eyes, so full of expression, so full of that sort of dumb, dog-like affectionateness, she must, she will suffer horribly if there comes a cloud between her husband and herself. Quentyns is the best of fellows, but he can be dogged and obstinate--I hope to goodness there's nothing up in that pretty little home of theirs." Aloud Rivers said abruptly, "I had thought of asking you to dine at the club with me, and then we might have gone to see Irving in _Henry VIII._,--a friend has given me two stalls,--but on second thoughts I can dispose of those tickets. What I should really like best is to come home with you, Quentyns, and have the pleasure of another chat with your wife. I want to hear you both sing too--I seldom heard two voices better suited to go together. May I invite myself to dinner to-night, Jasper?" "Oh, certainly," said Jasper, after a moment's awkward hesitation. "I'll just wire to Hilda, if you don't mind." "Not at all," said Rivers; "but remember, I am coming to take pot-luck." Jasper ran off to the nearest telegraph office. Rivers saw that his proposal was anything but welcome, but for that very reason he was determined to carry it out. An hour later he found himself standing in the pretty drawing room in Philippa Terrace, talking to the most charming little girl he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. Quentyns had run up at once to his room, and Hilda had not yet put in an appearance, but Judy, who was sitting on a sofa reading "Sylvie and Bruno," jumped up at once and came forward in her shy but self-possessed little way to meet her sister's guest. "How do you do?" she said. "Where would you like to sit?" "I prefer standing, thank you," said Rivers. He smiled at Judy and held out his hand. "So you are the young mutineer," he said suddenly. Judy's big eyes looked up at him in surprise--she was dressed in a green silk frock, with a broad golden-brown sash round her waist. Her dress was cut rather low in the neck, and she had several rows of golden-brown beads round her throat. The quaint dress suited the quaint but earnest little face. "What do you mean by calling me such a queer name?" said Judy. "I am a great friend of your brother-in-law's," said Rivers, now dropping into a chair and drawing the child toward him, "and he has told me all about you--you mutinied when Mrs. Quentyns went away--it was very wrong of you, very wrong indeed." "You can't judge anything about it," said Judy, the sensitive color coming into her face; "you are on Jasper's side, so you can't know."