"I shall not refuse it," says she, slowly, "whatever you may do." "I?" "You said you didn't want to go," says his wife severely. "But I have been thinking it over, and----" Her tone has changed, and a slight touch of pink has come into her pretty cheeks. "After all, Freddy, why should I be the one to keep you from your people?" "You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that." "Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them?" "Certainly not." "Not even if I give you the children to take over?". "Not even then." "You see," says she, with a sort of sad triumph, "I am keeping you from them. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now be friends with them." "I'd a great deal rather be friends with you," says he struggling wildly but firmly with a mutton chop that has been done to death by a bad cook. "I know that," in a low and troubled tone, "but I know, too, that there is always unhappiness where one is on bad terms with one's father and mother." "My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, but I beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, in spite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. 'God sends meat, the devil sends cooks.' That's not a prayer, Tommy, you needn't commit it to memory." "But there's 'God' and the 'devil' in it," says Tommy, skeptically: "that always means prayers." "Not this time. And you can't pray to both; your mother has taught you that; you should teach her something in return. That's only fair, isn't it?" "She knows everything," says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to his hearers that he regrets his mother's universal knowledge--that he would have dearly liked to give her a lesson or two. "Not everything," says his father. "For example, she cannot understand that I am the happiest man in the world; she imagines I should be better off if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother." "Whose mother?" demands Tommy, his eyes growing round. "Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some _arriere pensee_." "Freddy," says his wife in a low tone. "Well! What am I to think? You see," to Tommy, who is now deeply interested, "if she wasn't your mother, she'd be somebody else's." "No, she wouldn't," breaks in Tommy, indignantly. "I wouldn't let her, I'd hold on to her. I--" with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yet striving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, "I'd beat her!" "You shouldn't usurp my privileges," says his father, mildly. "Barbara!" says Joyce, at this moment. "If you have decided on going to London, I think you have decided wisely; and it may not be such an expense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest children very well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Or else take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me." Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement. CHAPTER XXXII.