I have to amuse _her_. The nice
thing about relations would be that one would not have to be on ceremony
with them all the time. Couldn't I go down with you to Leabourne next
week, mother, and see what the girls were like, and if I should care to
invite one of them here."

"You could, of course; but I strongly advise you to do nothing of the
sort. Your uncle Edgar has been dead only a fortnight, remember, and
though I don't think he was an especially devoted father, the children
will naturally be upset and distressed. It would be very dull for you
with the girls weeping, and your father and Stephen discussing money
matters, and ten to one a dreary, uncomfortable inn. Better stay at
home, and let me bring back a report. In any case you won't care to
invite one of them here until the first few months are over and she is
able to go about and make herself agreeable. It would be depressing to
have her about in her first deep black."

"Oh dear, yes! I couldn't stand that. I'd rather be alone than have
any one in low spirits," agreed Avice fervently, the idea that she
herself might possibly help to cheer and console never dawning on her
self-engrossed brain. "You say that the girls must be savages, mother,
but I should think they can hardly help being interesting. Aunt Elma
was a beauty, and Uncle Edgar was a genius--and some of them, at least,
must have inherited his gifts. Why do you say he was not a devoted
father? From my vague recollection he seemed very proud of the
children."

"Oh yes, he was proud enough; but they worried him when they were young,
and as they grew older I think he felt that they criticised him and
realised how he had wasted his opportunities. He was devoted to Elma,
for she worshipped him meekly all her life, and was convinced that no
such genius had ever existed. Your father is right. I never knew a
more brilliant young man than Edgar was at twenty-one; but what is there
to show for it now? A few songs, two or three novels and volumes of
poetry, and a number of pictures and sketches which he was ashamed even
to sign! He was always growing discouraged, turning from one thing to
another, and lowering his standard to meet the taste of the market. His
songs became more and more clap-trap and commonplace, his stories more
sensational, his pictures of the cheaply-pretty order which sell at
provincial exhibitions. I believe at the bottom of his heart he
realised his downfall, and when