“Of course they would,” agreed the other cheerfully.

“There must have been some way in which Madam Carolan could have managed them,” pursued Jean, thoughtfully.  “The women of that generation were a poor-spirited lot, I imagine.  One isn’t quite a child!” There was another little pause in the hot murmuring silence of the garden, and then, with a sudden change of manner, she rose to her feet.  “Mary! come and meet Sidney and the kiddy!” she commanded.

“Well, I rather hoped you were going to present them,” said Mrs. Moore, rising too, and gathering up sunshade and gloves.

They threaded the silent garden paths again, passed the house, and crossed a neglected stable yard, where a great red motor-car had crushed a path for itself across dry grass and weeds.  In the stable itself they found Sidney Carolan, the little Peter, and a couple of servants—­the chauffeur with oily hands, and the wrinkled old Italian maid, very gay in scarlet gown and headdress.

Jean’s husband had all the Carolan beauty and charm, and was his most gracious and radiant self to-day.  His sunny cordiality gave Mary no chance to remember that she had a little feared the writer and critic.  But, after the first moment, her eye was irresistibly drawn to the child.

Tawny-haired, erect, and astonishing in the perfection of his childish beauty, Peter Carolan advanced her a bronzed, firm little hand, and gave her with it a smile that seemed all brilliant color—­ white teeth, ocean-blue eyes, and poppied cheeks.  His square little figure was very boyish in the thin silk shirt and baggy knickerbockers, and a wide hat, slipping from his yellow mane, added a last debonair touch to his picturesque little person.  He was flushed, but gracious and at ease.

“You’re one of the reasons we came!” he said in a rich little voice--when his mother’s “You’ve heard me speak of Mrs. Moore, Peter?” had introduced them.  “You have boys, too, haven’t you?”

“I have three,” said Mrs. Moore, in the rational, unhurried tone that only very clever people use to children.  “Billy is nine, George seven, Jack is three; and then there’s a girl—­my Mary.”

“I come next to Billy,” calculated little Peter, his eyes very eager.

“You and he will like each other, I hope,” said Billy’s mother.

“I hope we will—­I hope so!” he assented vivaciously.  “I’ve been thinking so!”

Mrs. Carolan presently suggested that he go off with Betta to pack the luncheon things in the car, and the three watched his sturdy, erect little figure out of sight.  Mrs. Moore heard his gay voice break into ready Italian as they went.

A horde of workmen took possession of Carolan Hall a few days later, and for happy weeks Jean and Mary followed and directed them.  The Moore children and Peter Carolan explored every fascinating inch of house and garden.  Linen and china were unpacked, old furniture polished, and old paintings restored.