an observer were mistaken, the last year or two had emphasised a certain air of conscious superiority, perchance originating in the schoolroom.  She had had one child; it struggled through a few months of sickly life, and died of convulsions during its mother’s absence at a garden-party.  To all appearances, her grief at the loss betokened tenderest feeling.  When, in half a year’s time, she again came forth into the world, a change was noted; her character seemed to have developed a new energy, she exhibited wider interests, and stepped from the background to become a leader in the little circle of her acquaintances.

‘Have you read this?’ asked his hostess abruptly, holding up to him a French volume, Ribot’s L’Heredite Psychologique.

‘No.  That kind of thing doesn’t interest me much.’

‘Indeed!  I find it intensely interesting.’

Harvey rose; he was in no mood for this kind of small-talk.  But no sooner had he quitted his chair, than Mrs. Abbott threw her book aside, and spoke in another tone, seriously, though still with a perceptible accent of annoyance.

’Of course that man’s children are here, and I suppose it is our duty to provide for them till some other arrangement is made.  But I think we ought to put the matter in the hands of the police.  Don’t you, Mr Rolfe?’

’I’m afraid there’s small chance of making their father support them.  He is certainly out of England by now, and won’t easily be caught.’

’The worst of it is, they are anything but nice children.  What could one expect with such a father?  Since their poor mother died, they have been in the hands of horrible people —­ low-class landladies, no doubt; their talk shocks me.  The last amusement they had, was to be taken by somebody to Tussaud’s, and now they can talk of nothing but “the hunted murderer” —­ one sees it on the walls, you know; and they play at being murderer and policeman, one trying to escape the other.  Pretty play for children of five and seven, isn’t it?’

Rolfe made a gesture of disgust.

‘I know the poor things can’t help it,’ pursued Mrs. Abbott, with softer feeling, ’but it turns me against them.  From seeing so little of their father, they have even come to talk with a vulgar pronunciation, like children out of the streets almost.  It’s dreadful!  When I think of my cousin —­ such a sweet, good girl, and these her children —­ oh, it’s horrible!’

‘They are very young,’ said Harvey, in a low voice, perturbed in spite of himself.  ‘With good training ——­’

‘Yes, of course we must put them in good hands somewhere.’

Plainly it had never occurred to Mrs. Abbott that such a task as this might, even temporarily, be undertaken by herself; her one desire was to get rid of the luckless brats, that their vulgarity might not pain her, and the care of them encumber her polite leisure.

After again excusing himself for this call, and hearing his apology this time more graciously received, Harvey withdrew from the cosy study, and left Mrs, Abbott to her Heredite Psychologique.  On his way to lunch in town, he thought of the overworn journalist groaning with neuralgia, and wondered how Mrs. Abbott would relish a removal to the town of Waterbury.