"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