"That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, or else, that they, your people, were not so prejudiced against me. It will be an ordeal." "When you are about it wish them a few grains of common sense," says her husband wrathfully. "Just fancy the folly of an impertinence that condemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever; neither eye nor ear were brought in as witnesses." "Oh, well," says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of his people, "I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And," with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beauties are still unknown to them; they will be delighted when they see me." "They will, indeed," returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are really going to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of my money this winter, Barbara; I have some, therefore, and I have always wanted to see London." "It will be a change for the children, too," says Barbara, with a troubled sigh. "I suppose," to her husband, "they will think them very countrified." "Who?" "Your mother--" "What do you think of them?" "Oh, that has got nothing to do with it." "Everything rather. You are analyzing them. You are exalting an old woman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who love you!" "Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them," says Joyce. "It is easy to pick faults in those who have a real hold upon our hearts. For the rest--it doesn't concern us how the world regards them." "It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round," says Monkton. "No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The old reading is wrong," says Joyce. "You are unfair, Freddy," declares his wife with dignity; "I would not decry the children. I am only a little nervous as to their reception. When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them as my children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands." "That speech isn't like you," says Monkton, "but it is impossible to blame you for it." "They are the dearest children in the world," says Joyce. "Don't think of them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles." "You may certainly depend upon Tommy," says his father. "For any emergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder and sudden death are to be looked for, Tommy will be all there." "Oh! I do hope he will be good," says his mother, half amused, but plainly half terrified as well. * * * * * Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful to Joyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under her guidance, pretend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner.