After tea, Rose was invited to show her house—­a further proof of her sister’s tact and powers of divination.  Now Peter was left behind—­he used the opportunity to cut flowers for Deb to take away with her—­and the little matron was in her glory.  From top to bottom, and every cupboard and corner, and the numerous up-to-date appliances, and the stocks of silver, linen, china, the ample furnishings of every part, the solid goodness of every bit of material—­all was displayed with modest pride, the complacence of one who knows there is nothing to hide or apologise for.

“Isn’t it a nice home, Debbie?  Could any woman wish for a better home?” she asked again and again, unable to restrain herself.

And Deb, with a few secret reservations, said “Yes” and “No” with kindly warmth, thinking to herself:  “Happy child, to be satisfied so easily!  How much happier than we who want the moon!”

“I often wonder why I am so blessed,” Rose said, in the midst of the house inspection, “when poor Molly, who deserved so much more, lives the life she does.  Ah, Deb—­what a marriage!”

She spoke of it exactly as Bennet Goldsworthy had spoken of hers—­in a spirit compounded of benevolence and contempt, the former element preponderating in him, the latter in her.  At the moment she was exhibiting the complete appointments of Peter’s dressing-room.

“My husband may be a draper,” said she, “but at least he does not shave in my room.”

The survey of the house ended at the nurseries.  Rose had purposely left the best till last.  Her throwing open of the door revealed a picture so charming that it persuaded Deb to accept an invitation to dinner in order that she might do justice to it.

“Oh, what a delightful room!” she cried, as her eyes ran round its pictured walls, glowing in the evening firelight.

“Not large enough now,” the smiling mother objected.  “We are going to build new ones—­a wing at the back—­and turn these into bedrooms for the elder children, who will soon be old enough to have their own.”

“Oh, what little loves!” Deb then exclaimed, her eyes upon the young inhabitants—­five little fat, white, vigorous creatures in various stages of preparation for bed.

“There is one absent,” explained Rose, in accents of keen regret.  “John, the eldest; he is paying a visit to his grandparents.  This is Constance, the second”—­a golden-haired girl, enjoying her nightly treat of nursing the new baby.  “And this is Kathleen”—­a chubby creature in a flannel dressing-gown, waiting for her bath; “and Lucy”—­ being rubbed down by the nursery underling, Jane; “and Pennycuick”—­ Deb started at the name, and was uncertain whether it pleased her or not in this connection—­the baby but one, in the tub under the hands of old head-nurse Keziah.  “Are they not sweet?”

They really were.  Clean-blooded, clear-eyed, well-fed, well-kept, full of life and fun—­the pride of the maternal heart was amply justified.  Deb plunged into the group delightedly, kissed them, teased them, tickled them, did everything a proper aunt should do; and Rose was in ecstasies.