Maud’s lips moved, and the other children were sure they could read the words “Goody, goody!” but the grown-ups noticed nothing, and if Grandma made no promises, she at least made no objections, which, as Molly said afterwards, was almost as good as saying yes. It was wonderful how much more lenient Grandma was to Paul than she had ever been to the four little girls. “Well, Paul, what have you been reading lately?” inquired Aunt Kate, when the soup question had been finally settled, by Mary’s taking the plate away to the pantry, in order to remove the objectionable rice. “Oh, I don’t know,” answered her nephew, rather sulkily; “nothing much, I guess.” “My darling Paul,” cried his mother in horrified reproach, “what do you mean? Tell Aunt Kate at once about all the beautiful books you have read since you have been ill. He reads French just as well as English, you know, Kate. You must hear him to-morrow. What was that interesting story you were reading on the train to-day, Paul?” “_Sans Famille_,” said Paul, pronouncing the words with a decidedly English accent. “Indeed?” said Aunt Kate. “Did you enjoy it?” “I didn’t pay much attention to it,” returned Paul, unblushingly; “I hate French.” Aunt Kate smiled sarcastically, and even Grandma’s stern face relaxed a little, but Paul’s mother looked really pained. “Don’t notice him,” she said apologetically. “Like all sensitive children, he objects to showing off. He really adores his French books.” Paul grew suddenly scarlet. “I do not!” he proclaimed loudly. “I don’t mind showing off, but I hate French books, and most English ones, too.” “That will do, Paul,” said Grandma, who could not endure impertinence even from her only grandson. “Children who speak in that tone are sent away from the table.” Paul looked rather surprised, but wisely refrained from arguing the point, and the meal proceeded without any further unpleasantness. Paul refused to touch turnip, and informed his mother in a low voice that he hated baked custard, but if Grandma heard, she made no remark. “May we take Paul up-stairs, Grandma?” Dulcie inquired, eagerly, as they rose from the table. “Perhaps he would like to play lotto.” “Yes, I suppose you may as well,” answered Mrs. Winslow, who evidently had her doubts as to how Paul would endure the usual evening routine in the dining-room. “What time does he go to bed, Julia?” “Eight o’clock precisely,” her daughter answered, “but I think he had better go a little earlier to-night. He must be tired from the journey. Go up-stairs with the children, darling, and Mother will call you in half an hour.” “Now we’ve really got you to ourselves at last,” said Dulcie, joyfully, as they all went up-stairs together. “We’ve been talking about your coming ever since your mother’s letter came last week. You see, we felt as if we knew you; we’ve heard so much about you.” Paul looked interested. “What sort of things have you heard about me?” he inquired.