It was Herold who laid John's rash project before Sir Oliver and Lady Blount. “Why in the world,” cried the latter, checking the hospitable flow of tea from the teapot and poising it in mid air--they were at breakfast--“why in the world does n't he send the child to us?” John, in desperation, went over his arguments. The discussion grew heated. Sir Oliver, with a twirl of his white moustache, gave him to understand that to take folks out of the station to which it had pleased God to call them was an act of impiety to which he, Sir Oliver, would not be a party. His wife, irritated by her husband's dictatorial manner, demurred to the proposition. John had every right to do as he liked. If you adopted a child, you brought it up as a matter of course in your own rank in life. Why adopt it? Why not? They bickered as usual. At last John got up in a fume and went to cool his head in the garden. It was outrageous that he should never be allowed to mismanage his own affairs. There was the same quarreling interference when he proposed to go to Australia. He lit his pipe and puffed at it furiously. After a while Lady Blount joined him. She declared herself to be on his side; but, as in most sublunary things, there was a compromise. “At any rate, my dear John, give your friends a little chance of helping you,” she said. “If you set your face against Walter's plan, at least you can send the child down here to recuperate. Nurse Holroyd will keep a trained eye on her, and she can play about the garden and on the beach as much as she likes. I do understand what you 're afraid of with regard to Stella--” “Oliver and Walter are wooden-headed dolts,” cried John. She smiled wifely agreement. “There need be no danger, I assure you. We can give the child a room in the other wing, and forbid her the use of Stella's side of the house. Stella's room will be guarded. You may trust me. Have I ever failed yet? And Stella need never know of her presence in the place. After all,” she continued, touching his coat-sleeve, “I think I am a bit nearer to your life than your Aunt Gladys.” John laughed at the flash of jealousy. “If you put it that way, it's very hard to refuse.” “Then you 'll send her?” He knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the heel of his boot, thus hiding the annoyance on his face, but he yielded. “For her convalescence only.” The touch on his arm deepened into a squeeze. “If you had said no, I should have been so hurt, dear.” “I only want to do what's decently right,” said he. “I think you 're acting nobly,” she said. “My dear Julia,” said he, “I'm not going to listen to infatuated rubbish.”