They strolled toward the door, Nina’s arms linked in theirs, her slim fingers interlocked on her breast.

“We are certainly going to be happy—­we three—­in this innocent menage a trois,” she said.  “I don’t know what more you two men could ask for—­or I, either—­or the children or Eileen.  Only one thing; I think it is perfectly horrid of Gerald not to be here.”

Traversing the hall she said:  “It always frightens me to be perfectly happy—­and remember all the ghastly things that could happen. . . .  I’m going to take a glance at the children before I dress. . . .  Austin, did you remember your tonic?”

She looked up surprised when her husband laughed.

“I’ve taken my tonic and nobody’s kidnapped the kids,” he said.  She hesitated, then picking up her skirts she ran upstairs for one more look at her slumbering progeny.

The two men glanced at one another; their silence was the tolerant, amused silence of the wiser sex, posing as such for each other’s benefit; but deep under the surface stirred the tremors of the same instinctive solicitude that had sent Nina to the nursery.

“I used to think,” said Gerard, “that the more kids you had the less anxiety per kid.  The contrary is true; you’re more nervous over half a dozen than you are over one, and your wife is always going to the nursery to see that the cat hasn’t got in or the place isn’t afire or spots haven’t come out all over the children.”

They laughed tolerantly, lingering on the sill of Selwyn’s bedroom.

“Come in and smoke a cigarette,” suggested the latter.  “I have nothing to do except to write some letters and dress.”

But Gerard said:  “There seems to be a draught through this hallway; I’ll just step upstairs to be sure that the nursery windows are not too wide open.  See you later, Phil.  If there’s anything you need just dingle that bell.”

And he went away upstairs, only to return in a few minutes, laughing under his breath:  “I say, Phil, don’t you want to see the kids asleep?  Billy’s flat on his back with a white ‘Teddy bear’ in either arm; and Drina and Josephine are rolled up like two kittens in pajamas; and you should see Winthrop’s legs—­”

“Certainly,” said Selwyn gravely, “I’ll be with you in a second.”

And turning to his dresser he laid away the letters and the small photograph which he had been examining under the drop-light, locking them securely in the worn despatch box until he should have time to decide whether to burn them all or only the picture.  Then he slipped on his smoking jacket.

“—­Ah, about Winthrop’s legs—­” he repeated vaguely, “certainly; I should be very glad to examine them, Austin.”

“I don’t want you to examine them,” retorted Gerard resentfully, “I want you to see them.  There’s nothing the matter with them, you understand.”

“Exactly,” nodded Selwyn, following his big brother-in-law into the hall, where, from beside a lamp-lit sewing table a trim maid rose smiling: