thought.

"Yes, but--scarcely expecting. Sons are a perverse generation. I'm glad
he's tumbled on his feet and found a pal."

"Yes. It is good."

"We'll invite young Desmond here and inspect him, eh?"

"Yes--we will."

He was silent a moment, considering her profile--humanly, not
artistically. "Jealous, is she? The hundredth part of a fraction?"

"Just so much!" she admitted in her small voice. "But underneath--I am
glad. A fine fellow. We will ask him--later."

The projected invitation proved superfluous. Roy's next letter informed
them that after Christmas Desmond was coming for ten whole days. He had
promised.

He kept his promise. After Christmas he came and saw--and conquered. At
first they were all inclined to be secretly critical of the new element
that looked as if it had come to stay. For Roy's discreetly repressed
admiration was clear as print to those who could read him like an open
page. And, on the whole, it was not surprising, as they were gradually
persuaded to admit. There was more in Lance Desmond than mere grace and
good looks, manliness and a ready humour. In him two remarkable
personalities were blended with a peculiarly happy result.

They discovered, incidentally, his wonderful gift of music. "Got it off
my mother," was his modest disclaimer. "She and my sister are simply
top-hole. We do lots of it together."

His intelligent delight in pictures and books commended him to Nevil;
but, at twelve and a half, skating, tramping, and hockey matches held
the field. Sometimes--when it was skating--Tara and Chris went with
them. But they made it clear, quite unaggressively, that the real point
was to go alone.

Day after day, from her window, Lilamani watched them go, across the
radiant sweep of snow-covered lawn; and, for the first time, where Roy
was concerned, she knew the prick of jealousy,--a foretaste of the day
when her love would no longer fill his life. Ashamed of her own
weakness, she kept it hid--or fancied she did so; but the little
stabbing ache persisted, in spite of shame and stoic resolves.

Tara and Christine also knew the horrid pang; but they knew neither
shame not stoic resolves. Roy mustn't suspect, of course; but they told
each other, in strictest confidence, that they hated Desmond; firmly
believing they spoke the truth. So it was particularly vexatious to find
that the moment he favoured them with the most casual attention, they
were at his feet.

But that was their