'Lovely of you to come,' she said hoarsely, smiling broadly and looking so unmistakably contented that Miss Entwhistle, as she bent over her and kissed her hot forehead, thought, 'It's a success. He's making her happy.' 'You darling little thing,' she said, smoothing back her hair. 'Fancy seeing you again like this!' 'Yes,' said Lucy, heavy-eyed and smiling. 'Lovely,' she whispered, 'to see you. Tea, Aunt Dot?' It was evidently difficult for her to speak, and her forehead was extremely hot. 'No, I don't want tea.' 'You'll stay?' 'Yes,' said Miss Entwhistle, sitting down by the pillow and continuing to smooth back her hair. 'Of course I'll stay. How did you manage to catch such a cold, I wonder?' She was left to wonder, undisturbed by any explanations of Lucy's. Indeed it was as much as Lucy could manage to bring out the most necessary words. She lay contentedly with her eyes shut, having her hair stroked back, and said as little as possible. 'Everard--' said Miss Entwhistle, stroking gently, 'is he coming back to-night?' 'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly. Aunt Dot stroked in silence. 'Has your temperature been taken?' she asked presently. 'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly. 'Oughtn't you--' after another pause 'to see a doctor?' 'No,' whispered Lucy contentedly. Delicious, simply delicious, to lie like that having one's hair stroked back by Aunt Dot, the dear, the kind, the comprehensible. 'So sweet of you to come,' she whispered again. Well, thought Miss Entwhistle as she sat there softly stroking and watching Lucy's face of complete content while she dozed off--even after she was asleep the corners of her mouth still were tucked up in a smile--it was plain that Everard was making the child happy. In that case he certainly must be all that Lucy had assured her he was, and she, Miss Entwhistle, would no doubt very quickly now get fond of him. Of course she would. No doubt whatever. And what a comfort, what a relief, to find the child happy. Backgrounds didn't matter where there was happiness. Houses, indeed. What did it matter if they weren't the sort of houses you would, left to yourself, choose so long as in them dwelt happiness? What did it matter what their past had been so long as their present was illuminated by contentment? And as for furniture, why, that only became of interest, of importance, when life had nothing else in it. Loveless lives, empty lives, filled themselves in their despair with beautiful furniture. If you were really happy you had antlers.