“Children,” she said, “come here--this is your uncle Randolph; come and speak to him.” Mary was so much perplexed that she could not see what was best to do--whether to be anxiously conciliatory and convince Randolph in spite of himself, without seeming to notice his opposition, or to defy him; the former, however, was always the safest way. He did not make any advance, but stood with a half-smile on his face, while the children drew near with suspicious looks. “It is the--gentleman who is--a little--not very much, just a little, like papa,” said Lilias, going forward, but slowly, and with that look of standing on the defensive which children unconsciously adopt to those they do not trust. Nello hung on to her skirts, and did as she did, regarding the stranger with cloudy eyes. Randolph put out his hand coldly to be shaken; his smile broadened into a half-laugh of amusement and contempt. “So they are said to be his children, are they?” “They _are_ his children,” said Mary. Randolph shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “They look like foreigners anyhow,” he said. “My father, I suppose, is delighted. It must be a new experience both for him and you.” “Go away, my darlings, go to Martuccia; you see I have some business with--this gentleman.” She could not again repeat the title she had given him. When the curious little spectators had gone, she turned to Randolph, who stood watching their exit, with an anxiety she did not attempt to conceal. “For Heaven’s sake do not talk to my father about them! I ask it as a favour. He consents tacitly that they should be here, but he takes no notice of them. Do not call his attention to them. It is the only thing I ask of you.” He looked at her fixedly still, with that set smile on his face with which he had looked at the children. “I am scarcely the person to be called upon to make things smooth with my father,” he said. “Come, come; my father is old, and can be made to believe anything, let us allow. But what do you mean by it, Mary, what do _you_ mean? You were never any friend to me.” “Friend to _you_! I am your sister, Randolph, though you don’t seem to remember it much. And what have you to do with it?” asked Mary, with a certain amount of exasperation in her voice; for of all offensive things in the world there is none so offensive as this pretence of finding you out in a transparent deception. Mary grew red and hot in spite of herself. “I have a great deal to do with it. I have not only my own interests to take care of, but my boy’s. And why you should prefer to us, about whom there can be no doubt, these little impostors, these supposed children of John----” “Randolph,” said Mary, with tears in her eyes, “there is no supposing about them. Oh don’t go against us and against truth and justice! They brought me a letter from their father. There was no room to doubt, no possibility. John himself is most unfortunate----” “Unfortunate! that is not the word I should use.”