In compliance with his request, backed by their own much urgency, the rector’s wife has brought her young family to be presented to the first live hero they have ever seen, and all have arrived laden with the objects that seem to them most likely to support his spirits. With their usual eager kindheartedness, they have stripped their walls and dressing-tables of the photographs of the adored generals, and disposed them for exhibition within easy reach of Captain Binning’s eye and hand. Phillida has brought the new poodle, who wears the portraits of as many military men as can be induced to stick there, in midget size, in his hair, and Daphne introduces a female dove, in whom the friends of General Pole-Carew would be surprised to recognize that son of Mars. Mrs. Darcy sits by the sofa-side, putting in an observation when she has the chance, but, with her usual wise easy-goingness, not attempting to arrest the flow of enraptured questions which she knows that a word or a sign from her can at once check, and which evokes such amused answers as cannot be produced by the weary or the overdone. At the moment of Lavinia’s entry two inquiries are shooting from as many eager mouths at her patient, “Have you kept the bullet?” and “How often have you spoken to Bobs?” Half a dozen sparkling eyes await the answer; since, though Christopher has returned to school, little Serena is here, and staring with the rest. Surprise that one who has hitherto been so obligingly ready with his responses should now remain silent and look oddly over the tops of their hats instead of answering, makes them turn their own necks to discover the cause, and in the next moment they are surrounding Miss Carew, and liberally sharing their delightful gains in knowledge with her. “Oh, Lavy! _Did_ you know that Captain Binning has the same Christian name as Bobs?” Lavinia did know it, as well as a good many other facts about the object of the children’s interest, which he is less likely to have imparted to them; but she is spared the necessity of owning it by Captain Binning, who puts in, with a laugh whose altered quality puzzles the keen-eared young people-- “It is so far down in my long string that it scarcely counts.” “Captain Binning has three Christian names,” explains Daphne, in kind elucidation; and Phillida hastens to strike in glibly, before her sister can anticipate her-- “Edward Carruthers Frederick Binning.” “Two too many,” says the owner of the names, laughing again. But, as the children remark to their mother in the waggonette on their homeward road, claiming her confirmation of the fact, there is still something odd about him. She shuts their mouths unexpectedly. “It was his civil way of letting you know that he was tired! You know that with strangers and invalids a little of you goes a long way.” The explanation is not flattering, but is received without offence.