Iris and Apollo both listened to these strange words with fast-beating hearts.  What did they mean?  Mrs. Dolman spoke of when they were to live at the Rectory.  What rectory?  She spoke of a time when they were to live with her.  Oh, no; she must be mistaken.  Nothing so perfectly awful could be going to happen.

Nevertheless, Iris could scarcely touch her wine, and she pushed aside the tempting macaroon which Mr. Delaney had slipped on to her plate.  She found it impossible to eat.

Apollo, after a moment’s hesitation, attacked his wine and swallowed his biscuit manfully; but even he had not his usual appetite.

After a short pause, Iris gave a gentle sigh and put both her arms round her father’s neck.

“I am tired, father; I should like to go to bed.”

“And I want to go too,” said Apollo.

“Those are the first sensible remarks I have heard from either of the children,” said Mrs. Dolman.  “I should think they are dead tired for want of sleep, poor little mites.  Good-night, both of you.  When you come to live with me—­ah!  I see you are astonished; but we will talk of that pleasant little scheme to-morrow.  Good-night to you both.”

“Good-night, Aunt Jane,” said Iris.

“Good-night, Aunt Jane,” said Apollo.

“Good-night to you both, my pets,” said Mr. Delaney.

Iris gave her father a silent hug, Apollo kissed him on the forehead—­a moment later the little pair left the room.  As soon as ever they had done so, Mrs. Dolman turned to her brother.

“Now then, David,” she said, “you have got to listen to me; we may just as well settle this matter out of hand.  I must return home on Thursday—­and this is Tuesday evening.  It will be impossible for you to stay on here with those four children and no one responsible to look after them.  You appear half dead with grief and depression, and you want a thorough change.  The place is going to rack and ruin.  Your rent-roll, how much is it?”

“About fifteen thousand pounds a year—­quite enough to keep me out of anxiety,” said Mr. Delaney, with a grim smile.

“It ought to be twenty thousand a year—­in our father’s time it was quite that.  No doubt you let your farms too cheap; and so much grass round the house is disgraceful.  Now, if I had the management—­”

“But you see you have not, Jane,” said Mr. Delaney.  “The property happens to belong to me.”

“That is true, and I have a great deal too much on my mind to worry myself about Delaney Manor; but, of course, it is the old place, and you are my only brother, and I am anxious to help you in your great affliction.  When you married you broke off almost all connection with me, but now—­now I am willing to overlook the past.  Do you, or do you not, intend those children to run wild any longer?  Even though they are called after heathen idols they are flesh and blood, and it is to be hoped that some religious influence may be brought to bear on them.  At the present moment, I conclude that they have none whatever.”