“It is all right,” Anne said, and with the words she smiled again though her face was pale.  “It is quite all right, Dot dear.  Don’t be anxious.”

Dot looked up with a start.  “That’s the motor coming now.  Oh, Anne, I’ve only told you just in time!”

She was quivering with excitement.  It seemed as if she were far the more agitated of the two.  For Anne was calm to all outward appearance, quiet and stately and unafraid.  Only the hand that grasped Dot’s was cold—­cold as ice.  The motor was rapidly approaching.  They stood by the gate and heard the buzzing of the engine, the rush of the wheels, and then the quick, gay blasts of the horn by which Bertie always announced his coming to his wife.  A moment more and the car whizzed into the drive.  There came a yell of welcome from Bertie at the wheel and the instant checking of the motor.

And the man beside Bertie leaned swiftly forward, bareheaded, and looked straight into Anne’s white face.

She did not know how she met his look.  It seemed to pierce her.  But she was nerved for the ordeal, and she moved towards him with outstretched hand.

His fingers closed upon it as he stepped from the car, gripped and closely held it.  But he spoke not a word to her; only to Dot, whom he kissed immediately afterwards, to her confusion and Bertie’s amusement.

“I seem to have stumbled into a family gathering,” he said later, when they gave him the place of honour between Mrs. Errol and his hostess.

“Being one of the family, I guess it’s a happy accident,” said Mrs. Errol.

He bowed to her elaborately.  “Many thanks, alma mater!  Considering the short time you have had for preparing a pretty speech of welcome it does you undoubted credit.”

“Oh, my, Nap!” she said.  “I’m past making pretty speeches at my age.  I just say what I mean.”

A gleam of surprise crossed his dark face.  “That so, alma mater?” he said.  “Then—­considering all things—­again thanks!” He turned from her to the baby sprawling on the rug at his feet, and lifted the youngster to his knee.  “So this is the pride of the Errols now,” he said.

The baby stared up at him with serious eyes, and very deliberately and intently Nap stared back.

“What is his name, Dot?” he asked at length.

“Lucas Napoleon,” she said.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated.  “What an unholy combination!  What in thunder possessed you to call him that?”

“Oh, it wasn’t my doing,” Dot hastened to explain, with her usual honesty, “though of course I was delighted with the idea.  Bertie and I called him Lucas almost before he was born.”

“Then who in wonder chose my name for him?” demanded Nap.

“See the Church Catechism!” suggested Bertie.

“Ah!  Quite so.”  Nap turned upon him keenly.  “Who were his god-parents?”

“My dear Nap, what does it matter?” broke in Dot.  “Be quiet, Bertie!  For goodness’ sake make him put the child down and have some tea.”