‘I’m the blackest of goblins, I revel in smears—’ He smothered the accusing statement with a cough that was too late to disguise it, while the grey eyes looked steadily into his with a twinkle their owner made no attempt to conceal. The same instant the children rushed past him to welcome her. ‘It’s Cousin Joan!’ they cried with one voice, and dragged her into the room. ‘And this is Uncle Paul from America——’ began Nixie. ‘And he’s crammed full of sprites and things, and sees the wind and gets through our Crack, and—and climbs up the rigging of the Night——’ cried Jonah, striving to say everything at once before his sisters. ‘And writes the aventures of our Secret S’iety,’ Toby managed to interpolate by speaking very fast indeed. ‘He’s Recording Secre’ry, you see,’ explained Nixie in a tone of gentle authority that brought order into the scene. ‘Cousin Joan, you know,’ she added, turning gravely to her uncle, ‘is Visiting I’spector.’ ‘Whose visits, however, are somewhat rare, I fear,’ said the new arrival, with a smile. Her voice was quiet and very pleasant. ‘I hope, Mr. Rivers, you are able to keep the Society in better order than I ever could.’ The introduction seemed adequate. They shook hands. Paul somehow forgot the signs of mourning he wore in common with the rest. ‘Cousin Joan has a _real_ Society in London, of course,’ Nixie explained gravely, ‘a Society that picks up _real_ lost children.’ ‘A-filleted with ours, though,’ cried Jonah proudly. ‘’ffiliated, he means,’ explained Nixie, while everybody laughed, and the boy looked uncertain whether to be proud, hurt, or puzzled, but in the end laughing louder than the rest. When Paul was alone a few minutes later, the children having been carried off shouting to receive the presents their ‘Cousin’ always brought them on her rare visits from London, he was conscious first of a curious sense of disappointment. That strong-faced woman, grave of expression, with the low voice and the rather sad grey eyes, he divined was the cause; though, for the moment, he could not trace the feeling to any definite detail. In his mind he still saw her standing in the doorway—a woman no longer in her first youth, yet comely with a delicate, strong beauty that bore the indefinable touch of high living. It was peculiar to his intuitive temperament to note the spirit before he became aware of physical details; and this woman had left something of her personality behind her. She had spoken little, and that little ordinary; had done nothing in act or gesture that was striking. He did not even remember how she was dressed, beyond that she looked neat, soft, effective. Yet, there it was; something was in the room with him that had not been there before she came.