"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind of them to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief." "It was, indeed," says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they give up everything where will they go?" "They talk of taking a cottage--a small house somewhere. They want to give up everything to pay his infamous----There!" sharply, "I am forgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else." He begins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossible to him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all her life, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to----It would break your heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him." "Oh, no." "Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Her blameless life, and his----and she is the one to suffer." "It is so often so," says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to us individually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean by a small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone. "Well, I suppose a small house," said he, with just a passing gleam of his old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, so I think the cottage idea will fall through." "Freddy," says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, a London small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come and live with us?" She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does it unflinchingly. "What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly. "Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing," says she, unable this time, however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice. "No," says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes her suddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people are unhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't want your life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you have guessed that I must go over to Nice--where he is--my father could not possibly go alone in his present state." "When, must you go?" "To-morrow. As for you----" "If we could go home," says she uncertainly. "That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? The children are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, and their nurse--I often wonder which would require the most looking after, they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across." "He is so kind, such a friend," says Mrs. Monkton. "But----" She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in the doorway. "We shall be late," cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why----Oh, has anything really happened?" "Yes, yes," says Barbara hurriedly--a few words explains all. "We must go home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would look after us until we reached Kensington or North Wall."