“Oh, Eileen!  Eileen!” cried the children; “are you coming to luncheon with us?”

As Selwyn rose, she nodded, amused.

“I am rather hurt,” she said.  “I went down to luncheon, but as soon as I heard where you all were I marched straight up here to demand the reason of my ostracism.”

“We thought you had gone with mother,” explained Drina, looking about for a chair.

Selwyn brought it.  “I was commissioned to say that Nina couldn’t wait—­dowagers and cakes and all that, you know.  Won’t you sit down?  It’s rather messy and the cat is the guest of honour.”

“We have three guests of honour,” said Drina; “you, Eileen, and Kit-Ki.  Uncle Philip, mother has forbidden me to speak of it, so I shall tell her and be punished—­but wouldn’t it be splendid if Aunt Alixe were only here with us?”

Selwyn turned sharply, every atom of colour gone; and the child smiled up at him. “Wouldn’t it?” she pleaded.

“Yes,” he said, so quietly that something silenced the child.  And Eileen, giving ostentatious and undivided attention to the dogs, was now enveloped by snooping, eager muzzles and frantically wagging tails.

“My lap is full of paws!” she exclaimed; “take them away, Katie!  And oh!—­my gown, my gown!—­Billy, stop waving your tumbler around my face!  If you spill that milk on me I shall ask your Uncle Philip to put you in the guard-house!”

“You’re going to bolo us, aren’t you, Uncle Philip?” inquired Billy.  “It’s my turn to be killed, you remember—­”

“I have an idea,” said Selwyn, “that Miss Erroll is going to play for you to sing.”

They liked that.  The infant Gerards were musically inclined, and nothing pleased them better than to lift their voices in unison.  Besides, it always distressed Kit-Ki, and they never tired laughing to see the unhappy cat retreat before the first minor chord struck on the piano.  More than that, the dogs always protested, noses pointed heavenward.  It meant noise, which was always welcome in any form.

“Will you play, Miss Erroll?” inquired Selwyn.

Miss Erroll would play.

“Why do you always call her ’Miss Erroll’?” asked Billy.  “Why don’t you say ’Eileen’?”

Selwyn laughed.  “I don’t know, Billy; ask her; perhaps she knows.”

Eileen laughed, too, delicately embarrassed and aware of his teasing smile.  But Drina, always impressed by formality, said:  “Uncle Philip isn’t Eileen’s uncle.  People who are not relations say Miss and Mrs.”

“Are faver and muvver relations?” asked Josephine timidly.

“Y-es—­no!—­I don’t know,” admitted Drina; “are they, Eileen?”

“Why, yes—­that is—­that is to say—­” And turning to Selwyn:  “What dreadful questions. Are they relations, Captain Selwyn?  Of course they are!”

“They were not before they were married,” he said, laughing.

“If you married Eileen,” began Billy, “you’d call her Eileen, I suppose.”