“I never saw better children,” said Mr. Delaney; “their mother brought them up as no one else could.  In my opinion, they are nearly perfect.”

“You talk nonsense of that kind because you are blinded by your fatherly affection.  Now, let me assure you, in full confidence, that I never came across more neglected and more utterly absurd little creatures.  Good-looking they are—­you are a fine-looking man yourself, and your wife was certainly pretty—­the children take after you both.  I have nothing to say against their appearance; but they talk utter gibberish; and as to that eldest little girl, if she is not given something sensible to occupy her I cannot answer for the consequence.  My dear David, I don’t want to interfere with your estate.”

“You could not, Jane; I would not permit it.”

“But with regard to the children, I really have experience.  I have five children of my own, and I think, if you were to see them, you would be well assured that Iris and Diana, Apollo and Orion would do well to take example by them.  We might change the names of the boys and give them titles not quite so terrible.”

“I wish them to be called by the names their mother chose,” said Mr. Delaney, with great firmness.

“Well, I suppose the poor children will live it down, but they will have a terrible time at school.  However, they are too young for anything of that kind at present.  Give me the children, David, and I will act as a mother to them; then pack up your belongings, put your estate into the hands of a good agent, and go abroad for some years.”

“It would be an untold relief,” said Mr. Delaney.

At that moment the door was opened, and the butler appeared with the evening post on a salver.  Mr. Delaney laid the letters languidly by his plate.

“Shall we go into the drawing room, Jane?” he said.

Mrs. Dolman rose briskly.

“I shall retire early to bed,” she said.  “Read your letters, please, David; you need not stand on ceremony with me.”

Mr. Delaney looked over his post; then his eyes lighted up as he saw the handwriting on one of the envelopes.  He opened the letter in question, which immediately interested him vastly.  It happened to be from an old friend, and certainly seemed to come at an opportune moment.  This friend was about to start on an expedition to the Himalayas, and he begged his old fellow-traveler to go with him.  His long letter, the enthusiastic way he wrote, the suggestions he threw out of possible and exciting adventures came just at the nick of time to the much-depressed and weary man.

“Why, I declare, Jane,” he said, “this does seem to come opportunely.”  He walked over to where his sister was standing, and read a portion of the letter aloud.  “If I might venture to trust my darlings to you,” he said, “there is nothing in all the world I should like better than to accompany Seymour to the Himalayas.  He starts in a fortnight’s time, so there really is not a day to lose.”