"It would be very nice," she said to her husband, "if it all came right; and we were to be friends with such a rich lady, and if she would only give the children something to make them independent of their uncle Frederick. I’m not fond of money for its own sake; but for the children, my dear——" "Yes, the children are to be considered," said John, wondering whether his pretty, placid, good-natured little wife believed that he believed that she believed what she said. "I am sure a lady so well-born will be a charming companion," said Mrs. John, "whether she has been an actress or not." "And we must change the sherry," said her husband. CHAPTER XXXII. CONFESSION. By the time that Mrs. Anerley arrived, Dove was sufficiently well to suffer removal from the hotel; and as there was now no help for it, the whole family removed to those rooms which Will had engaged for them from his landlord. The position of affairs had now to be disclosed; and with all the cheerfulness and mutual consolation they could muster, the prospect seemed doleful enough. Every one seemed to be chiefly concerned for Dove, and Dove was the least concerned of all. She put her arm round Mr. Anerley’s neck, as he bent over the couch on which she lay, and whispered to him— "You have lost all your shooting, poor papa." "Yes." "But then you have me. I’m as good as the biggest partridge you ever saw, am I not?" "I think you are, darling." "And you have lost all your fishing, poor papa." "Yes, that too." "But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do?" Which was followed by the usual caress. "And you won’t have such lots of wine; but you know, papa, how angry you used to be when people did not appreciate what you thought was good." "And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after dinner on Sunday?" said he. "You’ll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we’re all sitting at the table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, and everybody is thinking about the nice Sundays down in the country, you know, there will be a little rustling, and a little murmur of music in the air—somewhere near the roof; and all at once two bottles of wine will be hung round your neck by the fairies—for it’s only you who care about it, you know—and everybody will laugh at you. That is the punishment for thinking about port-wine. Do I want port-wine? You’re an old cheat, papa, and try to make me believe I am ill that you may have your port-wine on Sunday. But I am not, and I won’t have any extravagance." He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of cheerfulness on her sweet face, and made some abominable vow about selling his mother’s marriage-ring before Dove should want her port-wine.