“You can’t help it,” Barbara said.  “She’s just as lovely in a Holland pinny, or a nightie, or a bathing suit!  I declare she was too lovely on the sands last year, with her straw-coloured hair, and a straw-coloured hat, and her pink cheeks matching a pink apron!  She’s going to be prettier than you are, Ju!”

“Well, at that she won’t set the Thames afire!” Julia smiled.

“I don’t know!  You ought to be an absolutely happy woman, Julie.”

Julia settled the baby’s head more comfortably against her arm, and raised earnest eyes.

“Is any one, Bab?  Are you?”

“Well, yes, I think I am!” Lady Curriel said thoughtfully.  “Of course those months before Francis’s uncle died were awfully hard on us all, and then before Mary came I was wretched; but now—­ there’s really nothing, except that we do not live within our income when we’re in the town house, and that frets Francis a good deal.  Of course I try to economize in summer, and we catch up, but it’s an ever-present worry!  And then our Geordie’s throat, you know, and being so far from Mother and Rich and the girls, of course!  But those things really don’t count, Ju.  And in the main I’m absolutely happy and satisfied.  I’m pleased with the way my life has gone!”

“Pleased is mild,” Julia agreed.  “I’d be an utter ingrate to be anything but pleased, looking back.  Jim is exceptional, of course, and Anna and this young person seem to me pretty nice in their little ways!  And when we went home this year it was really pleasant and touching, I thought; all San Francisco was gracious; we could have had five times as long a visit and not worn our welcome out!”

“So much for having been presented,” laughed Barbara.

“Well, I suppose so.  Mama was wild with interest about it; she has my photograph, in the gown I wore to the drawing-room, framed on the wall.  But Aunt May was dubious, isn’t at all sure that she admires the British royal family.  She’s a most delightful person!” Julia laughed out gayly.  “If ever I happen to speak of the Duchess of This or Lady That, Mama’s eyes fairly dance, but Aunt May isn’t going to be hoodwinked by any title.  ‘Ha!’ she says.  ’Do you think they’re one bit better in the sight of God than I am?’ And I like nothing better than to regale her on their silliness, tell her how one has forty wigs, and another is so afraid of losing her diamonds she has a man sit and watch them every night.  Long afterward I hear her exclaiming to herself, ‘Wigs, indeed!’ or ‘Diamonds!  Well, did you ever!’”

“When you come to think of it, Ju, isn’t it odd to think of your own people doing their own work, ’way out there on the very edge of the western world, and you here, in a fair way to become a London f’yvourite!”